


The Life You Save

by ScribereEstAgere



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Healing, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mental Institutions, Post-Purgatory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-03-31
Packaged: 2018-01-17 17:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1396441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribereEstAgere/pseuds/ScribereEstAgere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>May be your own. <i>Post-Purgatory.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I know the darkness pulls on you

**Author's Note:**

> **These characters do not belong to me.**

//

 

I know the darkness pulls on you  
But it’s just a point of view  
When you’re outside looking in  
You belong to someone  
 _~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out_

 

//

 

“He’s coming off suspension. They’re working it out.”  
 _~Captain Danny Ross_

 

//

 

_There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They’re not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be._

_Then the music starts._

 

//

 

What a mess. What a stupid, fucking _mess._

For Alex, the weeks following Bobby’s reinstatement are strange and uneasy ones, with a mood balancing precariously between light and dark, sweet and sour. Would their partnership — their _relationship_ — return to its previous state, or would it slip off the edge, fall into darkness, never to recover? Bobby’s constant sucking up/desperate placating both pleases and infuriates her (ENOUGH ALREADY she wants to scream on more than once occasion; does, on several occasions, roll her eyes without bothering to turn away from him first), but it’s more than that. The job is exhausting her, and the months she spent working without him only amplified the difficult nature of some of the cases. She knows she needs a break, but she doesn’t know from what, exactly, and that uncertainty is enough to keep her up at nights.

Dark, gloomy afternoon, neck-deep in paperwork that she hadn’t been able to maintain while Bobby was gone, and Bobby is hunched over his desk, muttering to himself below the _scritchscritchscratch_ of his pen, when it hits her:

She isn’t just tired of the job. She is, surprisingly, tired of _him_ too, of his antics, of them and their dancing around their weird, fucked-up partnership, or whatever it is.

It isn’t that she doesn’t want to forgive him. Nothing is further from the truth, actually. She _thinks_ about forgiving him all the time. She thinks about letting it all go, all the anger, all the hurt and disappointment, completely and once and for all.

(You’re undercover you don’t tell me?)

But.

But, it’s the shock and surprise of bursting into a room with her gun cocked and ready to fire and finding Bobby at the receiving end—

But, it’s the notion that if she _had_ fired (or if _he_ had) that nothing would ever be the same again, ever ever, and life as she knows it would be so fucking damaged and beyond repair that there really would be no point, no point at all to _anything_ —

But, it has something to do with the fact that every time she looks at him — every single time — she wants to either hug him or punch him in the face. Sometimes both.

And, oh, he keeps trying, despite her cold silences, her steely stares, her monosyllabic responses. Bobby Goren is nothing if not doggedly persistent in matters he truly cares about.

“Need help with that file?”

“I’m…uh…getting a coffee. Want one?”

“Do…you…uh want to go for dinner?”

 _That_ one almost makes her laugh out loud. Almost. She stares at him. “Why?”

And he only shrugs and shuffles his size 13s and mumbles something she doesn’t quite catch, but doesn’t bother to ask him to repeat, and they go their separate ways, and it is only later, much, much later, (too late), that she realizes what he’d really been trying to say:

_Please forgive me already._

 

//

 

And there are always comments and opinions buzzing around like mosquitoes, some muttered behind her back, but many directed right to her face.

“How’s that crazy partner of yours?” This time it’s Leonard, in Homicide. Eames slams her locker door shut, looks around to make sure Bobby is nowhere in sight.

“He’s _not_ crazy.” Her face is hot, her pulse racing. Shit. Shit _shit._

“All right, all right,” Leonard laughs, holds up his hands. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”

Which isn’t too hard, really: These days all her nerves are connected directly to Bobby.

 

//

 

She will never tell him how much he’d hurt her, just like she will never tell him how much she loves him.

 

//

 

And things are finally settling down, the two of them are finally falling back into step, mostly, but there are still a few bumps, a few—

(I think there are... some unresolved issues... with a man in your life. Some... _trust_ issues.)

—and she hides the Vacation Request forms she’d sneaked out of Ross’s office one afternoon under her desk blotter, because maybe, just maybe, they are going to weather this, they’re going to _fine_ , but then the call comes from Ross, via Bobby, about Frank, and everything changes.

Again.

 

//

 

Frank Goren is buried on a cool and windy May morning next to his mother beneath a tumble of white clouds. Weak sunlight, trees just beginning to bloom, scraggly branches raking the sky. It had rained during the night and the grass is wet and brushing against the mourners’ ankles.

Alex is there, and Ross and Rodgers. Donnie’s mother Evelyn. Bobby. Frank’s AA sponsor, Dan? Dave? The minister. A lot of ghosts, welcome and otherwise.

Alex has been fighting tears for days, for so many different reasons, and during the brief, impersonal service she can no longer contain them. She bows her head during the final prayer and cries very quietly. Bobby, who is standing next to her, unclasps his hands and takes one of hers in his, squeezes her fingers briefly, then releases, which makes her cry harder.

Bobby patiently receives the well-wishers (what is there to say, really? The only surprise is that Frank didn’t bite it sooner), and speaks briefly with the minister. Alex watches the cluster of dark, retreating backs and turns to Bobby. His head is down, shoulders hunched, hands balled in his pockets. He looks smaller than she’s ever seen and very alone.

“Do you want to go for a walk? Get a coffee?” she asks. She very much doesn’t want to leave him and she’s grasping. He shakes his head. She tries again. “Beer? Scotch? My treat.”

(Do…you…uh want to go for dinner?)

He looks up and smiles. “No. It’s okay. I…I think I just want to be alone for awhile. But…thank you.” He looks back down, digs the toe of one recently polished shoe into soft earth.

Still she hesitates, wavering, uncertain. She feels the tears again and suddenly, impulsively reaches up on tiptoes and throws her arms around his shoulders. She closes her eyes, pushes her face into the scratchy and vaguely musty smelling fabric of his dress coat.

“I’m so sorry,” she mumbles and she wonders if he can even hear her. He drags his hands out of his pockets and hugs her, hard, harder — she can feel his fists digging into the small of her back — and he just nods against the top of her head, to let her know he has.

 

//

 

After Declan is escorted from the room (muttering, gesticulating, begging forgiveness, understanding, immunity), Alex slips in, knees shaking, stands beside Bobby, who is gripping his head in his hands, not moving, not speaking.

“Bobby—” Her voice sounds loud, useless. She doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

“Please…Eames. Please. Just…don’t—”

“Goren.” Ross stands at the door, his voice quiet, resigned. “I need you to make a statement…before you forget anything.”

Bobby heaves himself to his feet, swipes one arm across his face, and though Alex wants desperately to hug him again, this time she has to be content with touching the sleeve of his shirt as he passes.

She’s not sure he even notices.

 

//

 

Another death, another drama, another enforced leave of absence. Alex ponders the nature of The Twilight Zone, of days repeating, endlessly, the same one, over and over and over again, pushes her fingers against the bridge of her nose, pushes back the tears.

“Just a week, right?” Bobby clarifies with Ross three times, just to be absolutely certain.

“Yes, Goren. One week. One _complete_ week. I don’t want to see or hear from you until Tuesday. _Next_ Tuesday.”

Bobby looks long and hard at Eames, imprinting, she thinks irrationally, before he turns and walks away.

_Again._

 

//

 

She is good about staying in touch, at least for the first few days.

“Am I missing anything?” he asks. (Besides you, he wants to add.)

“I’ve caught a robbery case. Very…boring.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Uh…McMartin art gallery. Four paintings, the curator and the owner’s wife have mysteriously gone missing.”

They wait, listen to each other breathing.

“Are you all right?” she finally says.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She takes a breath. “Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

Bobby reads books and newspapers and surfs the web and paces his apartment and drinks coffee and smokes (only a couple a day) and drinks (only at night) and thinks about Frank and Declan and Frances and work. Always work. And Eames. _Always_ Eames. Then he doesn’t hear from her for two days and he panics. His calls to her home phone went unanswered, and messages on her cell, unreturned.

He calls work, gets hold of Ben, a young detective with a well-acknowledged crush on Eames. Great. _Great_.

“I’m trying to track down Eames.” Bobby clears his throat. “Do…do you know where she is?”

He hears the mouthpiece covered briefly, some muffled voices behind it. Bobby frowns. What the _hell_ is going on?

“She’s in training, I think.”

“Training…for what?” What the hell kind of training does she need for a robbery case?

“Uh…hang on.” Again the phone is covered, more muffled voices, some laughter.

Ben clears his throat. “I don’t think you’re supposed to know.”

This is getting ridiculous. Bobby laughs nervously. “Come on. Help me out…I’m in the dark, here.”

Another pause, more muffled talk. Apparently this is too good not to share.

“Okay. But I’m not supposed to be telling you this.” Ben lowers his voice and Bobby pictures him leaning close to his desk, one hand cupped around the phone. “She’s… _dancing_.”

“…what?” Bobby closes his eyes. Feels a migraine building.

Ben _giggles_. God, Bobby wants to punch him. In the mouth.

“She’s going undercover. Dance club.”

Bobby’s heart skips, lurches. His mind races. “Not…not the Vice Club murders? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nope. Apparently she fits the victim profile perfectly. Chief of D’s handpicked her.”

“Really.”

“You want me to tell her you called?”

But Bobby has already hung up.

 

//

 

She doesn’t get home until almost 1 a.m.

He knows this because he waits outside her apartment building for five fucking hours.

And he fucking _hates_ surveillance duty.

He forces himself to wait a full 10 minutes before he does in.

A full 10 agonizing minutes.

 

//

 

“Are you out of your mind?” He’s already yelling as he pushes his way through her door without waiting for it to open completely. She’s wearing a long, blue bathrobe and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She looks adorable, but he’s too blind with anger to notice. Much. She folds her arms across her chest, regards him calmly.

“Hi. How are _you?_ ”

“The Vice? Have you completely lost your senses?”

She sighs. She seems resigned and not very surprised.

“How did you find out about that?” She closes the door, locks it, motioning for him to sit down. He does not. He’s quivering with rage and something else. She perches on the edge of the couch.

“Not from you!” he shouts. “Do you have any idea how that feels?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. I know exactly how it feels, funny enough.”

He stops short. “Oh…so we’re going back to that again?”

“You brought it up.” She shrugs. She realizes with a start that the pain is still there, simmering just below the surface. She can’t resist a small pang of childish satisfaction: _Nyah nyah._

He paces a few steps more, runs an agitated hand through his hair.

“You’re not doing this.”

“Pardon?”

“This…this stupid undercover crap. Forget it. No fucking way.”

“Bobby—”

“ _Those girls._ ” He takes a shallow, jagged breath that catches in his throat. “Those girls were…strangled, okay? In case you’d forgotten. And, they had the _shit_ beat out of them.”

“Which is exactly _why_ this needs to be done. Someone has to stop whoever’s _doing_ it—”

“Yeah. Fine. Someone else. Not you. You’re not doing it.” He hears himself, knows he sounds like an asshole.

Doesn’t care.

“Really. You think you’re going to stop me?” she counters, her voice finally rising, eyes snapping.

He pauses. “No.” He takes a step closer, looks down at her tense, beautiful face. “I’m going with you.”

Her face softens then, imperceptibly, but he sees it, grasps for it.

“I want…I need to…go with you.”

She sighs.

“You know I have no say about that.”

He swallows. It’s very hot in her apartment suddenly.

“But…you could ask, right? You could…ask.”

She sighs again, looks down. When she looks back up he’s staring at her with a furious intensity usually reserved for serial killers…or Ross. Her heart races.

(But…you could ask, right? You could…ask.)

Of course she could.

 

//

 

“Goren, are you deaf? Or just defiant?” Ross is practically trembling with anger, but Bobby’s too angry himself to give much of a fuck.

“We’re _partners_ , in case anyone in this room has forgotten.” He directs this at both Ross and Eames, who, he notices, is studiously avoiding his murderous gaze.

“No one has forgotten anything, Goren, except for you. Forced leave of absence. Ring a bell?”

“Look…Captain.” Bobby can feel it slipping away, his chance, and he can’t…he won’t let that happen. “I…need to be in there, with her. Not some fucking rookie, not _Ben_ , for god’s sakes—”

(Eames. Help me out here. Please.)

“Captain, I _would_ feel more comfortable,” Eames breaks in, still not looking at Bobby, whose hands are twitching, flexing, twisting the hem of his rumpled suit jacket. At least he dressed for the occasion. Sort of. “Nagy does have a history of…unpredictability—”

“Who?” Bobby says.

Ross stares at him, unblinking. The mutual dislike is palpable. “Our suspect, Karl Nagy. He is, apparently, some sort of up-and-comer in the art world. The victims are all dancers, and have all danced at Vice. Their names are Starr, Crystal and Blue, aka Diana, Sarah and Claire.” Ross pauses. “Nagy is the only connection we have between all the girls. We found paintings of each of them in the McMartin gallery.”

“Wait a minute.” Bobby turns to Eames. “You were investigating a robbery there.”

Eames sighs. “The owner’s wife is a former Vice dancer. Apparently is — was — good friends with Nagy. Her ‘disappearance’ isn’t murder, but she displays a lot of Nagy’s work. The girls at Vice all talked about a patron who…asked to paint them, at one time or another. Nagy fits the profile.”

There’s a knock at the door and Ben appears. He smiles at Eames before speaking.

“Rodgers sent me…the body’s ready.”

Bobby stops, looks to Eames. “…what? Another girl?”

“Found yesterday. Bobby—”

The room is too small for Bobby’s energy. He might flip Ross’s desk over. He might smash his fist through the window. He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and run and—

“Goren—” Ross takes a deep breath, engages in a brief staredown with Goren that he knows, he _knows_ he will never win. “Fine. Let’s go.”

 

//

 

“Victoria Moretti, 23. Danced under the name Diamond. COD strangulation. Same MO.” Rodgers pauses. “And, she took a beating, first. A bad one. If this guy’s an artist, he must paint them before he loses his temper.”

The girl looks startlingly young under the harsh lights, scrubbed clean, bruises and scratches standing out in raw, stark relief. Bobby grips the edge of the metal table, feels nauseous for the first time in years and years, because he can see Eames’s face superimposed over Victoria’s, her eyes, her nose, her mouth—

(Do you see? Do you _see_ what he does to them?)

“I hear you’re going in,” Rodgers says suddenly. Eames looks at her and nods, once.

“Be careful.” She lowers the sheet, displays the girl’s bruised, battered breasts. “This is personal.”

Eames pales, nods again.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” Ross says. Bobby releases his grip on the table, takes a steadying breath. When he opens his eyes, _everyone_ is looking at him. He looks only at Eames.

“This doesn’t change your mind?”

She crosses her arms, shakes her head. She looks young and old at once, all lines and softness, resolve and vulnerability. “No, in fact. It makes me more determined than ever to catch the bastard.”

And because he knows her, knows nothing he can say or do will sway her, he only nods, swallows against the rising bile.

“Ok. Let’s do it, then.”

 

//

 

Bobby fidgets as he’s wired up, watches Eames out of the corner of his eye. She’s fidgety, too, flexing her hands, turning her head back and forth. The muffled thumpthumpthump of music through the club’s walls is both distracting and soothing. Bobby tries to measure his heartbeat in time. The two other dancers and standing by, watching with bright-eyed interest. Bobby assumes they are the ones who trained Eames, because she turns and smiles tightly at them.

“You realize,” she says to no one in particular, “that I’m old enough to be these girls’ _mother_ —”

The girls giggle.

“It’ll be dark,” Bobby offers.

Everyone falls silent.

“Gee…thanks,” she drawls. Bobby’s heart breaks a little.

“That didn’t come out right…I mean, I didn’t _mean_ it like _that_ —”

She’s watching him, and Ross is watching him. Is she going to yell? Snark?

“Are you saying you don’t want to see me dance?” she teases instead.

“No, no. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“So, you _do_ want to see me dance?”

(Oh god yes I do I do but I can’t say that what does she want me to say exactly?)

Ross shakes his head, steps forward, addresses Eames.

“When Nagy ‘chooses’ you for a private dance, he’ll nod and raise his hand. Once you’ve left the main area, we’ll be able to hear everything. He’ll ask to come back to him loft, he’ll want to paint you. When he does that, we’ll be there.”

“How do you know…he’ll choose her?” Bobby speaks through a choking haze of panic and imminent vomit. He still wants to pick her up and run with her, run run run—

“Eames is going to show him…special attention,” Ross says carefully. “And…she’s his type.”

Eames nods, takes a huge breath through her nose, exhales through her mouth, looks over at Bobby, because she knows he’s watching her and she wants him to know that everything is going to be _all right_.

“Are you…sure you want to do this?” he asks, for the millionth time, it seems. His throat is very dry. She’s rubbing her hands together and bending her knees slightly. She nods tersely. She looks down at herself, at the tight black bodice and fishnet tights, the impossibly high heels.

“Where else am I going to go dressed like this?”

Right.

Well, he has a few suggestions, but nothing he can actually say out loud.

So, he shrugs, instead, and she laughs loud and harsh, like a slap.

 

//

 

_There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They’re not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be._

_Then the music starts._

 

//

 

There is a pounding of music, a throbbing and thumpthumpthumping, flashing lights. He knows then, as he shifts on his chair, as if he needed a reminder, why he never frequents these _establishments_. This is hell, he thinks. This, right here. He blinks and moves to shield his face before realizing that wouldn’t look good, wouldn’t look _professional_ at all. So, he sits still and pastes a bland, mildly expectant expression on his face and grips the edge of his metal chair with both hands, knuckles white, and he’s sure, with the crazy manic flash of bluegreenredyellow lights that keep flashing _god I’m going to have a fucking seizure if they don’t fucking stop soon—_

There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They’re not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be.

Then the girls appear.

 

//

_tbc_


	2. But it's just a point of view

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **These characters do not belong to me.**

//

 

I know the darkness pulls on you  
But it’s just a point of view  
When you’re outside looking in  
You belong to someone  
 _~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out_

 

//

 

_There are three men in the room. They sit back to back, in a close circle, on metal chairs. They are not comfortable, but they aren’t meant to be._

_Then the girls appear._

 

//

 

And so it begins: Through the blinding, flashing lights and throbbing music, Eames comes into clear, sharp focus almost immediately. He’s never seen anything like it (her) in his life, and he’s mesmerized. He knows, logically, he’s supposed to be watching all _three_ dancers (it’s a job, it’s his _job_ ), but he can’t, he simply cannot focus on the other two, those blurry, indiscriminately feminine shapes that pass by. It’s Eames, only Eames and—

—he couldn’t take his eyes off her, even if he wanted to.

The beat and thrum of the infernal music has somehow coincided/corresponded with the beat and thrum of his infernal pulse, the thrum of his blood and the sexual beat in his wrists and between his legs, which he’ll never really be able to admit, or explain, nor will he have to, so he doesn’t think about it too much, because if he _had_ to, what would he say, exactly?

_I’m fucking hot for my partner._

No. No no.

 _No._ That would never do. Never. (thrumthrumthrobthrob).

(beatbeatbeatthrumthrumthrum)

Be professional, Bobby. Be. (thrumthrumthrobthrob). Professional. Ahhh—

He grips the sides of his chair so hard his fingers actually _hurt_ and he tries, sofuckinghard to not think about _her_ —

—but she’s lithe and graceful, she’s frenetic and sexual, she’s a dream and a fantasy and the woman he loves and he can’t quite reconcile the vision in front of him with the person he’s known and worked with for 10 years. _That_ Eames is smart and sensible, practical and asexual. _This_ Eames has breasts and legs and hair and she’s moving like a serpent and he wonders how the _hell_ she got so good so fast. Then, he decides he really doesn’t want to know the answer to that.

She looks like she’s been doing this all her life.

But, because she _hasn’t_ , she stumbles and falls, right in front of him and the beat stops and the throbbing stops justlikethat and—

—and of course, purely by instinct and because it’s _her_ he reaches out for her, to catch her. One hand grabs her elbow and the other finds her waist and she leans against him briefly, but long enough for him to smell her perfume and feel the slightly sweaty weight of her and hear her low mutter “Fucking _shoes_ —” and then she’s up and moving again, face averted, moving away from him and it all happened so quickly he wondered if it happened at all.

It did.

One of the club’s thugs is there then (where did he even come from? One of the dark, shadowy corners, pay attention Bobby, _pay attention_ ), bearing down on him like a large, dark spectre and Bobby feels the hard, sharp slap of the back of a gloved hand against the side of his face, quick, brutal. His head whips to the left, just once. He closes his eyes, adjusts to the flash of pain, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes.

All movement in the room has stopped. Everyone is watching, waiting.

“You touched her.” The voice is close and low and strangely conversational, right next to his ear. Bobby shifts. His head throbs viciously.

“She…fell.”

“Don’t. Touch. The girls.”

“Right. Sorry. I…won’t do it again.”

“No. You won’t.”

The spectre is gone and the room releases a collective breath and is in motion again _thumpthumpthump_ and through a blur of pain he sees Alex pass in front of him again, her face white and drawn, eyes wide and too-shiny and distraught and fixed on him. Bobby attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. He tries to settle himself, to _focus_ , to not draw any further attention to himself—

But it doesn’t matter, anyway, because Nagy makes his move at last. He nods at Alex, then moves his hand, reaches out for her and Alex nods back, smiling. Bobby’s heart lurches and he clutches the edges of his chair so tight his knuckles pop.

(Why oh why why did she agree to this? And why oh why why did I let her?)

Then they’re gone.

 

//

 

He somehow manages to hear their conversation over the frantic pounding of his heart.

(You’re exactly what I’m looking for.)

(Oh yeah? What’s that?)

(I’m an artist. I’m always on the lookout for new…subjects.)

(Is that so?)

(You’re…perfect. Come to my place, ok? Let me paint you.)

And there’s another pounding, and a lot of yelling, and Bobby finally, finally, releases the breath he feels he’s been holding for _days_.

 

//

 

Back to the station and hours of paperwork and debriefing. Endless cups of greasy coffee and stale bagels, too bright lights and too sharp noises. Endless questions, queries, and then what? And then? _What happened next?_

When he finally sees her again, face-to-face, she’s dressed in her blue hoodie and jeans, sensible shoes. She looks like Eames again, small and smart and beautiful. She also looks exhausted, but strangely triumphant and wired, too.

“You did…you did good,” he says.

“Thanks.” She grins a little. “You, too.”

He laughs.

“How’s your face?” She’s suddenly serious, not joking in the least, and moves to touch him, touch his cheek maybe, then she stops, because she remembers where they are, and who might be watching.

He shakes his head, shakes it off.

“Fine. All in a day’s…or night’s work, I guess.”

“Right,” she says, and they stand still, looking and not looking at each other, for who knows how long until (thank god):

“Detectives,” Ross motions from across the room. “We’re ready.”

 

//

 

Nagy is almost surreally handsome up close, lounging in his chair, relaxed and lawyerless. His shirt is open at the collar, his hair artfully tousled. Paint-stained fingers. Bobby can almost see how the women might flock to him.

Almost.

Nagy grins outright when they walk in, his bright blue eyes honing in on Eames’s face.

“Hello again,” he drawls. “ _Detective_. Funny how you seem so much more…appealing now that I know you’re a cop.”

“Funny strange or funny haha?” Eames says. She sits, looks neither at him nor at Bobby.

Bobby slams his binder down. Nagy flinches, but only a bit. Bobby opens book, starts flipping pages.

“These women…all girlfriends of yours…are dead.”

Nagy shrugs, grinning. “Not girlfriends sadly, but unfortunate, nonetheless. And, not my doing. I simply painted them. Dancers do have the most sublime bodies.” He pauses, his eyes finding Eames’s again. “Maybe they all died of a broken heart after I refused their advances.”

“Unfortunately, these women didn’t die of a broken heart,” says Bobby, scattering three glossy photos across the table. “They died of a broken _neck_. Strangled. All of them. Strangulation…very personal…very passionate. You…you’re a passionate guy, right?”

Again the smile, this time aimed in Alex’s direction. Bobby’s jaw clenches.

“I like to think so.”

“Passionate about…life…or art?”

“Art _is_ passion, Detective. I infuse every aspect of my life with it. It is what makes life worth living…don’t you agree?”

Bobby smirks, trembles.

“And where does that passion go…what’s the outlet…after the relationship ends…when it all sours…when it all goes to hell?”

Nagy stops smiling. “Are you suggesting that I killed these women? These beautiful, sensuous creatures?” He locks eyes with Alex. “I could never, ever hurt a woman. I love them too much.”

The sound of Bobby’s fist slamming down on the table makes everyone in the room jump, including Alex, who should be used to such things.

“You just have to see my work to understand just how much I love them.”

“Yeah…I’ve seen your _work_ ,” Bobby spits, “and I think you’re a talentless hack.”

Nagy’s eyes flash dark for just a second, but he catches himself, smiles again and sighs. “No great artist is truly appreciated in his lifetime.”

Bobby grips the tabletop. He leans forward. “You killed those women.”

Nagy smiles, leans forward too, looks like he might kiss Eames, or at least, he wants to.

“Prove it.”

 

//

 

“We’ve caught a break,” Ross says in the viewing room. “Amanda Keeler. Found an hour ago. Same MO, dancer at Vice.”

“Alive?” Bobby leans close to the glass. He hasn’t felt this murderous since…forever, he thinks. Never. He could happily walk into that room and put his own hands around Nagy’s neck and—

“Barely. St. Vincent’s. We’re hoping she’ll be able to talk in the next couple hours.”

“But Nagy thinks he killed her,” Alex says.

“Yes. And we’ll let him continue to think that.” Ross pauses. “You can use it when you go back in.”

“Who can use it?” Bobby says.

Ross doesn’t speak for a moment, but Bobby knows, he _knows_ what he’s thinking.

“Eames.” As Bobby opened his mouth to protest, Ross continues, quietly: “ _Alone_.”

“No. No _fucking_ way.”

“Eames has already established a connection with him. And _you_ have _not_.” Ross crosses his arms. Bobby looks like he might punch the wall, or him. “He’s much more likely to give up some information if he feels she’s there for him.”

“ _There_ for him? _There_ for him?” Bobby hates the barely controlled tremour in his voice. “Are you nuts? You saw the way he was looking at her.”

“Yes, I did,” says Ross, “which is exactly why Eames need to be the face person here.”

Bobby swallows, with difficulty. What he’s feeling is irrational, he knows: Eames has interrogated male suspects alone plenty of times during the course of their partnership. Why should this be any different?

Because it is, that’s why. It just is and there _is_ no explaining it, no rationalizing it away. He shakes his head, sharply. “I…disagree.”

“Too bad you’re not the Captain, then.” Ross, irritated and puzzled as he is, is clearly enjoying pulling rank, but Bobby isn’t even _mad_ , he’s just panicking.

(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and—)

“Eames—” He turns to her, his desperation palpable, he feels. “Just d-don’t…don’t push too hard, okay? L-let him think you’re on his side, okay?”

He resists the very strong urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake his warning into her bones.

And for a moment he thinks he’s successful: She’s staring at him thoughtfully, her brow furrowed, her lips pulled tight.

“If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just—”

He can hear himself and thinks, What the hell is wrong with me? It isn’t the first time he’s asked himself. Then: Something. Something is _wrong_. I can feel it. I can—

“Goren.” Just one word. Just one, and it brings him up short. When was the last time she called him by his last name? He looks down at her. Arms crossed, that line between her eyes. She’s tense, he can see that, and she’s mad. “Drop it.”

“I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…”

“Unstable I can deal with,” she says, and something like a smirk touches the corner of her mouth. “Been dealing with that for about 10 years.”

Even Ross has to stifle a snicker at that. Eames ignores him.

“Let me do my job, all right? Contrary to what you seem to think, I do know what I’m doing.”

He nodded, frantically. “Y-yeah. It’s not _that_ , I swear. We just need a confession, so _promise_ me—”

But it’s too late.

“Eames,” he says as the door swings shut behind her. Eames, he whispers to himself. _Eames._ He closes his eyes.

(I’m sorry.)

(Is that all you have to say for yourself?)

No.

 _No_.

Be careful, too.

_Please._

 

//

 

Fuck him, she thinks, not for the first time. Despite her retort, despite her show of irritation and bravado, his words, his anxiety, have touched a nerve in her. It’s so unlike him to show…what had it even been? Concern? Fear? Her stomach clenches and she feels sweat bead along her hairline and between her breasts.

Done this a hundred times, she tells herself as she pushes open the heavy door and walks in. A _thousand_ times. This is no different, no different.

Still, her mouth is dry and her lips feel numb. She seems to be moving very slowly as she pulls out the chair (scrape of metal on concrete) and her legs give out just before she’s fully seated.

Deep breath. And another. She’s acutely aware of Ross and Goren behind her, behind the glass, their eyes on her, Bobby knuckle-white, slick-skinned, dry-mouthed (What the _fuck_ is going on with him?). One more breath and eyes up, meeting Nagy’s full on. He’s smiling, his body almost trembling in anticipation, his smooth, suave face both amused and aroused.

“ _Detective_.”

(Don’t push too hard)

“Karl.”

(Let him think you’re on his side)

“We’re finally alone.”

She leans forward. “I have to apologize for my partner’s behaviour earlier. He can be a bit…overzealous.”

(Nagy’s hands on the slender, unsuspecting neck of Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda)

“No offense taken,” he croons. “But, surely you don’t share your partner’s insane theories about me.” He slides a hand across the table, wraps his fingers around her hand. His skin is very soft and warm. Alex feels her stomach roil. Throwing up would not _make him think she was on his side_. She swallows.

“Then convince me.”

“I don’t need to rape anyone detective, let alone murder them. Look at me!” At last he removes his hand from hers, makes a broad gesture in his own direction.

Alex tries very, very hard not to laugh, because she’s sure it would quickly veer into hysteria. She looks at him.

“You may fool naïve, young women with this act, but I’m neither young nor naïve, Karl.”

“Come now, Detective. You’re selling yourself short. You have a lot of life in you…a lot of passion. I can tell. It just takes the right man to…release it.”

“Release it…as in being painted naked?”

Nagy laughs.

“Perhaps.” He leans forward again. “Passion is difficult to control sometimes. Learning to direct it…that’s what separates the artists from the…hacks, as your partner so crudely put it. And I would still love to paint you.”

Alex makes her mouth form a smile. “Would you.”

“You’re strong. I can see that. You work out. Your muscles are long and lean. You would look…magnificent nude.”

(Keep dreaming Karl.)

“Really.”

“Yes.”

“But these…other women. The dead women…”

Karl shrugs, makes a remorseful face.

“Yes. Sad. So very sad, really. All young, beautiful.” He shakes his head. “Such a _waste_.”

Alex closes her eyes, then opens them.

“You’re telling me it’s coincidence that three women you painted, three women who danced for you at the same club, are now dead?”

“Yes.”

Alex takes a breath, then another. She can feel her temper rising, can feel it like something hot and sharp in her chest and all the warnings in the world won’t be able to push it back down now.

“What happened, Karl? Did they see the finished painting and realize that you really are just a talentless hack?”

“I’m not—”

“No, see,” she hears her voice rise with her temper. “I think you just might be—”

(You have a connection. Use it to your advantage)

“—and now we know you’re lying because one victim who made it out of your ‘studio’ alive. Amanda didn’t die.”

Nagy frowns, just slightly.

“Who?”

“Amanda Keeler. Yet another dancer from Vice, yet another woman whose image we will find in your apartment.”

(Don’t push too hard)  
(too late, Bobby)

“Amanda.”

“Still very much alive and very much able to ID you, because you’re not only a hack, Karl, you’re a murderer.”

(Don’t push too hard)  
(too late too late too late—)

Karl looks at her. He’s no longer smiling, and he’s no longer admiring.

And that’s when everything goes to hell.

 

//

 

Robert Goren was five years old when he saw his first magic act. His mother had taken him and Frank to the local library to see Gonzo the Great. Bobby remembers the smell of the books combined with the anticipation/excitement of the show. He remembers sitting up high on his knees, despite repeated admonishments from Frances and kids behind him to SIT DOWN NOW. He remembers being physically unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him, his breath scrambling up in his throat with no idea which direction to travel. He remembers thinking: If I look away, even for one second, I will miss something. Something extremely important will happen and _I will miss it._

He also remembers thinking, as Gonzo pulled a rabbit out of a hat and made a wallet disappear: This isn’t real. It’s an illusion. It’s not really happening. It can’t be, because what I’m looking at is impossible and if I actually believe it my entire reality is fucked up—

With both hands flat against the viewing room glass, with a pounding in his chest and his ears and the whole world, he feels exactly the same way now as he watches Alex Eames get the shit beat out of her.

 

//

 

She knows she’s in trouble when she sees the light go out of his eyes. They flicker and go dark and everything in the room slows down and speeds up at the same time. She remembers feeling this exact way the moment she realized Bobby was trapped in Tates, trapped and alone and possibly dead and she was completely fucking helpless and so far away and the need for action, the need to _do something right fucking now_ was so overwhelming, so huge and—

Now: the entire sequence of unfortunate events play out over a matter of seconds, less than one minute, but it feels like a lifetime. She sees Nagy stand, she sees him reach for the back of his silver metal chair, and she sees his hands (paint-stained blue and green and yellow and) grip and shove, hard, under the handle of the door. She hears, as if from far, far away, the grating sound of metal on the concrete floor. She’s standing, too, but she doesn’t remember doing so. Her hand is reaching for her gun, but she’s slow, and he’s fast, faster, and he’s so fucking angry and his hands are on her—

She’s yelling, she thinks, for him to stop, for someone to help, but she knows he’s blocked the door for any number of seconds, and seconds are not her friend, not her ally, because he could fucking _kill_ her in a number of seconds, he’s that good, he is, he’s proven himself, he has, she’s seen the evidence of his anger first-hand—

Eames gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with Karl’s knee and thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. He skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and flings her halfway across the room. 

There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and Eames is having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode. There’s blood, she knows, she can taste it, but she’s not sure if it’s actually coming from her mouth, or just trickling in, and she can smell it, and she knows it’s in her eyes, and her hair is wet with it (just don’t please don’t give me brain damage please I need my brain).

And underneath that plea is one other: Where the fuck are you Bobby?

She’s thinking about these things, and feeling her own blood pool beneath her head, when the fucking door _finally_ bursts open and a lot of people are there and there’s a lot of yelling, but it’s Bobby’s presence that fills the entire world.

Then there’s a roaring sound, and he’s there, fuckingfinally; she catches a glimpse of his face (Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face) contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and he has Nagy in his grip and Nagy is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and _someone_ is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or Nagy, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby.

Then she lets go of consciousness at last, goes limp and welcomes the blackness that swallows her up.

 

//

_tbc_


	3. When you're outside looking in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **These characters do not belong to me.**

//

 

I know the darkness pulls on you  
But it’s just a point of view  
When you’re outside looking in  
You belong to someone  
 _~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out_

 

//

 

She floats for some time in a bed-shaped boat on a vast body of water the colour of dark concrete. She realizes, much later, that her particular sea is the exact shade of the interrogation room floor. Funny coincidence, that.

The gentle rocking isn’t unpleasant, but it is at times disconcerting, because she can’t see land in any direction. No hills or mountains, no buildings, towers, clouds, birds. She can’t see _anything_ actually, except a wide empty sky and the endless water and the white sheet that covers her, the bumps of her knees and feet under it. Her own Eames-shaped landscape. She lifts her arms a bit, but it’s difficult: she feels _tethered_ , though she can’t see any restraints, so she stops trying, for now. All she can hear is a faint hiss, and beneath that, an even fainter beepbeep. She comprehends, on some level, that she’s in a hospital, but she can’t remember why, and this not remembering (not wanting to remember) ignites a panic in her that she can fight only by closing her eyes tightly, pushing back into her pillow, gripping the bed sheets and willing herself away, away, deeper and deeper until the rocking overtakes her completely and she’s aware of absolutely nothing at all.

 

//

 

_She sees the man stand, she sees him reach for the back of his silver metal chair, and she sees his hands (paint-stained blue and green and yellow and) grip and shove, hard, under the handle of the door—_

She doesn’t like where this is going, not one bit, but it’s like one of those dreams, those horrible dreams where you’re aware that you’re dreaming, but have no way of waking yourself up. She tries digging her nails into the palm of her hand until she draws blood, but—

_She hears, as if from far, far away, the grating sound of metal on the concrete floor. She’s standing, too, but she doesn’t remember doing so—_

Not good, not good not good at all. Wake up, Alex, now—

 _Her hand is reaching for her gun, but she’s slow, and he’s fast, faster, and he’s_ so fucking angry _and his hands are on her—_

Wake the fuck up _nownowNOW_ —

 

//

 

The next time she opens her eyes she sees Joe perched on the side of her bedboat, just sitting and watching her, and she’s very happy to see him, until she remembers he’s very dead.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. _And where’s Bobby?_ She’s desperate to know, but somehow she doesn’t think her murdered husband would appreciate this question, so she doesn’t ask.

“Just visiting,” he says. “I’ve missed you.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, and she feels, absurdly, like she might cry, so she says instead: “Am I dead?” 

“Not yet.” He laughs a little. “You’re just as tough as I remember, you know.”

“Am I…dying?”

“Not sure.” He shakes his head, looks sad. “It…definitely wasn’t good, for awhile.”

This information doesn’t upset her, really. It feels as though they’re talking about someone else, maybe someone in the next room, or a distant, elderly relative.

“Am…am I going to be all right?”

“I hope so.”

They sit for awhile, rocking ever so slightly. She takes a breath. “So…what do I do now?”

“Now, you wait.”

“For what?”

He shakes his head and smiles. She feels that old, familiar tug of emotion, of loss and love and ache, looking at him, but it surprises her, just then, how much it has faded over the years, how it (he) has been replaced, bit by bit, by something (one) else.

And because he knows it, too, he says: “Not what, Alex. Who.”

 

//

 

_She gets in one, two good, solid kicks, her boots making contact with a knee and a thigh, but it isn’t enough and it’s too late. The man skitters like a spider, corners her, slaps her, hard, then basically picks her up and—_

NononononononewdreamwakeupnewdreamwakeupNOW—

 

//

 

It must work, because now she’s no longer in the bed, or in that horrible room, but at work, at her desk, sitting across from Ross, who is occupying Bobby’s desk.

“Captain?” she says. He looks at her. He sighs.

“Eames. Really. Where did your judgment go?” he says.

She’s puzzled. “Pardon?”

“I know you’re worried about your partner’s safety and mental health, but I’m worried about yours.”

Eames closes her eyes. She hears Ross throw down his pen. “It’s all very confusing, I realize, but don’t worry.” He leans forward, puts a hand on hers. “We all have to go sometime.”

But she has no clue where she’s going, and she’s no longer sure what, exactly is a dream, and what is not, or if everything is, which wouldn’t be too bad, either.

 

//

 

And the next time she looks up, she sees Frank Goren perched on the edge of her boat.

“What are _you_ doing here?” She fights the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Frank looks good, handsome and relaxed, the best she’s ever seen, until she remembers he, too, is very dead.

“Keeping you company.”

“You’re still dead, right?

He laughs. He sounds a little like Bobby when he laughs, which makes Alex laugh. “Yeah. Still dead.”

She pauses, tries to process. “And Joe is dead.”

Frank nods, no longer laughing.

“But Ross…I’m pretty sure _he’s_ not dead.” Or, was he? She was so confused.

“No, no. Ross is fine.” He smiles at her. “That part _was_ a dream.”

“Ah.” She twists the white, white sheet between her fingers, trying hard to not think about _the other parts_. “And…I’m not dead, so I’ve been told.”

Frank shakes his head. “No.”

“Not yet, at least.”

And suddenly, as desperately as she longs to _see_ Bobby, she just as desperately does not want to see him _here_ , because if she sees him _here with these dead people_ —

“Bobby really loves you, you know?”

“What, are you reading my mind, now?”

Frank laughs. “Don’t think so. But I guess anything is possible.” He reaches down and smoothes a wrinkle in her sheet. “It’s just…you’re kind of going the wrong way.”

“What?”

“He’s going to need you, so you have to go back.”

“What do you mean? Go back…go back where?”

Franks smiles. “And you’re going to have to help him.”

“What do you mean? How?”

“You’ve gone too far, in the wrong direction.”

“But…I can’t tell where I’m going.” She looks around. Nothing. Still nothing at all. Nothing but water.

“I mean,” he says, looking up at the endless sky, “it’s time to change your course.”

 

//

 

_There’s a lot of noise (metal scraping/glass smashing/bone on bone on concrete) and she’s having difficulty keeping track of it all. She’s in a defensive position, she knows, having abandoned any pretense of attack mode—_

Why didn’t I fight harder? What the hell kind of cop am I? I was warned, he tried to warn me and I was too fucking stubborn because I was mad, I was _mad_ at him and it was so petty and childish—

_There’s blood, she knows, she can taste it, but she’s not sure if it’s actually coming from her mouth, or just trickling in, and she can smell it, and she knows it’s in her eyes, and her hair is wet with it (just don’t please don’t give me brain damage please I need my brain)—_

And that’s it, she thinks, rather hysterically. That’s what’s wrong with me after all. I’m fucking _brain damaged_. I’m a goddamn vegetable wasting away in a fucking hospital bed and no one will pull the fucking plug and it’s been 20 fucking years or something ludicrous like that, oh why oh why didn’t I sign that living will when I had the chance, please someone just pull the plug already—

And underneath that plea is one other, rising above all the panic and fear, one that’s filled desperate longing: _Where are you Bobby?_

 

//

 

And then, it happens: She opens her eyes and Bobby is there, in her boat, looking off into the distance at something she can’t discern. His concentration is such that she’s able to just lie still and watch his dear and familiar shape for some time, and his simply being there fills her with peace. If this is death, it might just be all right after all.

“Bobby,” she says. He turns. A warmth blooms in her chest. She is inordinately glad to see him. His eyes widen in surprise and he smiles widely, with a joy she hasn’t seen in…years.

“Hi there,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Good.” A shadow passes across his face, but because there isn’t a cloud in the sky, she thinks she just imagined it. Of course, she might just be imagining all of this. “Do you remember what happened yet?”

She shakes her head, because she’s not ready to talk about any of that yet, not even with him. She pushes her head back into her pillow and clutches her sheets and—

“That’s okay, Eames. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Please.” He looks at her, intently. “Don’t worry about anything but getting better.”

She nods and tries to relax, touched by his concern.

“How are _you_?” she asks, though he looks wonderful and seems quite serene. She would very much like to touch him, but she’s frightened to, at the same time. What if…? Well. What if.

“You’re getting closer,” he says, pointing.

She follows the line of his finger. “To what?”

But, he doesn’t answer, and she finds her curiosity is not piqued in the least: she’s just so thrilled to see him she doesn’t care about _anything_ else. 

“But, you’re not out of the woods yet, so to speak,” he says at last, and he laughs, just a little, though his eyes are dark, unfathomable.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, and is surprised to find herself crying. “I can’t imagine doing this alone.”

He nods and reaches out for her, and when his hand touches hers it’s very warm and soft and makes her cry a bit harder.

“Just…rest, okay?” he says and she nods and though there are a thousand questions building, and a thousand memories poking, for now she’s just happy to lie in her bedboat with him beside her, holding her hand as they float and rock.

 

//

 

 _She’s thinking about these things, and feeling her own blood pool beneath her head, when the fucking door_ finally _bursts open and a lot of people are there and there’s a lot of yelling, but it’s Bobby’s presence that fills the entire world—_

The poking and prodding is starting to poke clean through the barrier she has constructed and she pushes the memories back with all the strength she has because _fuck_ if she wants to remember any of _this shit_ —

_Then there’s a roaring sound, and he’s there, fuckingfinally; she catches a glimpse of his face (Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face) contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and he has the man in his grip and the man is gone finally fucking gone, but so is Bobby and _someone_ is screaming and Eames wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby—_

Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he _so upset_ —

_Then she—_

_then she_

_then she lets go and—_

The gentle rocking has built to alarming swells and though her fingers clutch tight to the sheets she’s in danger of slipping right off the side of her bedboat into the (she’s sure) deadly waves below.

Please please please let this stop. I want this to stop now. I don’t like this any of this why is Bobby screaming like that why on earth is he _so upset_ —

And underneath that plea is one other: Where are you Bobby?

“Here.” She can hear his voice and feel his hands on her and when she forces her eyes open, she can see his face, framed dark against the blindingly white sky beyond. “Breathe, Eames. Breathe. Please. I’m here.”

She hears her breaths harsh and fast and struggles to calm herself, to listen to the soothing cadence of his voice.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He touches her face, her hair, places a hand on her chest, over her thudding heart, and it calms her.

“Don’t…don’t do that again.”

Her looks at her.

“Don’t scream like that...please. It scared me.”

“I won’t. I promise. I won’t do that ever again.”

She pulls on him, pulls him to her, pulls her down beside him, and he puts his arms around her. She pushes her face into his shirt, which is soft and blue and smells just like him and for the first time lets herself be rocked to sleep by something other than waves.

 

//

 

From then on, each time she opens her eyes, Bobby is there. Sometimes they talk, but more than often they just sit, companionably, and watch the sky, the nonexistent horizon, each other.

 

//

 

One day she opens her eyes and she can see something, in the distance, for the first time. A long strip of land, maybe, but it’s hard to tell.

“What is that?” she asks.

“It’s a good sign,” he says.

“I’m a little scared.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure what’s real and what isn’t.”

He turns and gives her that blinding smile again, and for a moment she thinks everything is going to be just fine, but then he says: “Welcome to my world.”

 

//

 

“Almost there,” he says, and she can see it, clearer and closer than ever before, but it doesn’t make her feel good in the least; instead, she can feel that old panic squirming beneath her ribs, the panic she hasn’t felt since the first day, the day without Bobby.

“I wish you’d tell me where we’re going.”

He shakes his head. “Not we,” he says softly. “You.”

“What do you mean?” He takes her hand, presses it to his mouth. His face is wet, and for a moment she thinks it’s the water, but then she sees it’s tears.

“I mean, this is _your_ journey. Me? I’m just along for the ride.”

 

//

 

_Then there’s a roaring sound  
and he’s there, fuckingfinally  
she catches a glimpse of his face  
(Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face)  
contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and  
he has the man in his grip and  
the man is gone finally fucking gone  
but so is Bobby and _someone_ is screaming and  
she wonders if it’s her or the man, but it’s neither: it’s Bobby—_

Where the fuck are you Bobby?

And oh _oh_ it’s the short sharp _crack_ of remembrance like a gunshot and a short sharp intake of breath, and a million images tumbling Nagy, Karl Nagy, and the girls Diana/Jane/Sarah/Amanda and Bobby’s furious snarling face and the screaming and something _reallybad_ happened to me and oh something has happened to him too and now I really do need to wake the fuck up—

(He’s going to need you, so you have to go back)

NOW

 

//

 

So Alex opens her eyes and, as she knew it would be, the hiss and beepbeep are very loud, and the room is grey and shadowed, and her entire body hurts like she’s been run over by a truck, or slapped and thrown across a room and kicked and stomped on maybe, and the person holding her hand is not Bobby or Joe at all, but her father. And, he’s crying, but it’s a happy kind of crying, she realizes.

“Dad?”

“Hi, honey.”

“I’m back. I…I went the right way after all.”

“Alex?”

“How…bad is it?”

He swipes at his eyes. “Not as bad as it looks, actually. Couple broken ribs. Sprained arm. Nothing internal, thank god.” He smiles, and cries at the same time. “It was the concussion we were so worried about. Just so happy to see you’re awake.”

Her small room is littered with flowers. She wonders which ones Bobby sent, but then thinks he’s not really the flowers type.

“Dad. I need…what happened to Bobby? Is he all right?”

Her father immediately tenses up, his head whipping over his shoulder, looking for help.

“Uh…honey. I think…you need to rest before—”

“Please—” She really doesn’t want to start bawling, or yelling, and she doesn’t want to throw up, but that definitely feels imminent. “He’s not—”

“Ross asked me…explicitly, honey…he wants to talk to you himself, okay? Please?”

This time the screaming is coming from her, she knows without being told, and the shot they give her makes her float away almost instantly, and she imagines she’s holding onto him, his blue shirt, and his smell, with no horizon in sight.

 

//

 

When she next wakes up, it’s Ross she sees, grey and somber in rumpled suit coat, tousled hair, eyes heavier than ever.

“Captain,” she says. Her head is throbbing viciously, and her ribs. And her arm. She wishes it would stop.

“Eames,” he smiles a little. “Alex. I’m…glad you’re all right.”

“I dreamed about you,” she mumbles.

“You did?” He sounds oddly pleased. She decides to not elaborate.

“Alex.”

That one word silences the pain in her head and everything comes into crystal clear focus, cradling a pain of a completely different sort.

“Just tell me.”

“Goren—”

“Is he all right?” Her voice is shrill and barely controlled with the need to know. Ross nods, but it’s a reluctant nod. “He’s alive?”

“Yes.”

But.

“Then where is he?”

“Nagy’s dead.”

Nagy? Nagy who? Oh. Fuck. _Him_. Right.

“Okay. Good.”

Ross sighs. There is something more, she knows.

“He…died, yesterday morning.”

“Fine. He was a piece of shit, and I normally wouldn’t say that, but I don’t see what this has to do with—” And then she does. She sees it all so clearly she wonders why she didn’t piece it together immediately.

_there’s a roaring sound, and he’s there, fuckingfinally; she catches a glimpse of his face (Bobby’s face yes it’s his she knows his face) contorted in a rage like she’s never ever seen before and he has Nagy in his grip_

“Oh no. No.” She starts crying. “No.”

“He died after spending the week on a respirator. He died after he was beaten into a coma by your partner.”

“No. No.”

“Bobby killed him, Alex. After you were…he…Bobby just went crazy. He…I don’t know. He…beat Nagy into a coma and he…died.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Alex—”

“No! There’s nothing to be sorry about! He was defending me. Everyone…everyone saw what was happening. There are witnesses and surveillance tape, right? No one could blame Bobby—”

“You…didn’t see…” Ross sighs, shakes his head. He leans forward, to put weight behind his words. “It took _four officers_ to pull him off—” He takes a breath and tries again. “Listen. Bobby thought you were _dead_. He…thought Nagy had _killed you_. We…all did.”

She sucks in a breath. Shit, that hurts. “But…he knows, right? He knows now, that I’m all right?”

Ross won’t look at her.

“He knows, right? Right?” She hears her voice rising, feels the panic fluttering behind her breastbone. Why won’t Ross fucking look at her? What’s going on? Where _is_ Bobby?

“He’s been pretty heavily sedated…since it happened. I…honestly don’t know the answer to that.”

She hears her voice coming from a long ways away, a voice that belongs to another person.

“Where is he?”

“He’s under observation.”

“Observation…for what? They aren’t going to charge him, are they? They can’t! Nagy _would_ have killed me if Bobby hadn’t—”

“He’s under observation at Bellevue. They’re not going to charge him, Alex.”

Relief floods through her and she feels herself sink into the bed. But Ross’s eyes are very dark, almost black, in the half-light and she knows, she knows before he speaks, (Bellevue that’s a psychiatric hospital that’s where the hopeless cases go that’s not where he should be but) and she knows before he shakes his head so slightly it’s almost a nervous tic, she knows, she fucking _knows_ —

“They’re going to commit him.”

 

//

_tbc_


	4. You belong to someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **These characters do not belong to me**.

//

 

I know the darkness pulls on you  
But it’s just a point of view  
When you’re outside looking in  
You belong to someone  
 _~ Brandi Carlile, Looking Out_

 

//

 

He floats for some time in a drug-induced haze in a world that has no colour, but is all colours, at once. Odd, but not overly distressing. There is light and sound, but he can’t make sense of any of it (random clanks and clicks and slaps and slams and unfamiliar voices allinajumble sometimes slow sometimes reallyfast), and every time he tries to sort it out, he remembers he really doesn’t want to do that, so he simply stops, and lets himself float again. It’s so easy, to just let go, and all in all, not really a bad way to pass the time now that—

No no. Let’s not think about _that_. Let’s think about _this_ instead:

 _The word avocado comes from the Aztec word_ ahuacate, _meaning testicle._

Fascinating, really, and really? He’ll never eat another avocado in his life.

_Human sperm comes in three varieties: Some drive toward the egg, some exist only to kill, and some to obstruct other men’s sperm. The relative proportions found in semen depends on the man’s belief at the time of ejaculation about whether his are the only sperm there._

Another reason why he, himself, will never procreate, because he, himself, will always assume someone else (someone better) has gotten there first.

_The largest Island in Canada is Baffin Island, the fifth biggest island on Earth. Only two US states are bigger than Baffin Island: Alaska and Texas. Baffin Island is more than double the size of the UK and slightly smaller than France._

Oh, Canada. He carries a Loonie in his pocket, received from the trusty Coin Of the Month Club, and he fully intends to use it, one day.

_Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliaphobia is the fear of long words._

He’ll have to remember to tell Eames that one, just to see her roll her eyes and smile in that way she has when he’s said something both irritating and endearing and—

Oh. Ohgod. See where thinking gets you, Goren? Nowhere good, that’s where. The colourless colours swirl and churn and his stomach clenches and knots and as he leans over the side of his bed and heaves and heaves he realizes he really knows only one thing: that everyone he loves is dead or gone and Eames is dead and gone and really, nothing else matters anymore, not random useless facts, not colours, not his name or date of birth, not _anything_.

 

//

 

The day she is to be released, Ross appears in the doorway.

“You’re looking better,” he says. She only nods, struggling to adjust her hoodie over her sling. She know she looks like shit, but she’s polite, and she’s up and mobile and the pain is only mildly agonizing today, so, there’s _that._

“Your father’s coming?”

“In about an hour. They want me to stay with my sister for a few days, but honestly, I’d get more rest at the precinct than at her house.”

Ross smiles. He’s waiting. She knows he’s waiting.

“And I’m seeing Bobby tomorrow. I have an appointment at 11 a.m. And even to do _that_ , I had to use my menacing cop voice. And give my badge number. And your name as a reference.” She smoothes her hair down awkwardly. She needs a shower, a real shower, but lifting her good arm up with her ribs taped is…She sighs. Maybe she should stay with Liz after all.

“Eames. It’s not…a good idea.” Ross sighs. “He’s still…”

“I need to see him.” Her entire body aches and she’s so exhausted she might fall asleep standing up. “I need to...” She swallows. “He doesn’t belong there.”

Ross sighs again, leans against the door jamb. Alex’s hand is shaking. She shoves it into her pocket.

“I mean, don’t you agree? You can’t think…you don’t think he _needs_ to be there.” She looks at him. He doesn’t answer. “ _Do_ you?”

He takes a few steps inside, reluctantly.

“Eames, you and I know…we both know, better than anyone, what he’s gone through the past few years. His mother. Frank. Nicole. Donny. Declan.” The names of the dead and departed ring loudly in the small room. All those losses, all that pain. “Any one of them might have been enough to push him past his breaking point. But then… _you_. You.”

She shakes her head.

(He’s going to need you, so you have to go back)

“Maybe you don’t want to hear it, but you mean more to Goren than anyone else in the world, and I’m talking even before he lost everyone else in his life. I stood next to him that day, watching him watch you, and I saw his face when Nagy—”

He stops and swallows.

“Something…something inside him changed. Do you understand? And he went running and he slammed that door open and grabbed Nagy and I couldn’t have stopped him if I tried, unless I’d used my gun.” He pauses. “And believe me, I considered it.”

(a man who has nothing left to lose is a man possessed is the most dangerous man in the world)

Eames shakes her head. “It doesn’t mean—”

“It _might_ mean he does need a…rest. It might. He might be…better off in a facility that can…help him. Have you thought of that?”

“Actually, I haven’t.”

“You also haven’t even seen him yet.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“It might.”

“It _won’t_. There’s nothing _wrong_ with him. He saved my life.” Don’t cry, Alex. Do not cry. “And now, it’s my turn to repay the favour.”

They stare at one another. Alex can hear her heart beating.

“Fine. Fine.” Ross takes another step closer. She can see, then, how utterly fatigued he looks and it hits her then what a toll all this has taken on him, too. He’s aged at least 10 years. “But do _me_ a favour first, all right? Call your father…tell him to meet you at the precinct instead in a few hours.”

She looks at him.

“I need you to see something.”

 

//

 

Bobby counts ceiling tiles (159) until his eyes blur more than usual even, practices wiggling his fingers and toes, recalls interesting facts (a “jiffy” is an actual unit of time for 1/100th of a second), tries to convince himself that _this_ place is better than Tates, because at least here he gets enough to drink and eat and the people looking after him are infinitely gentle with their touches and voices and it doesn’t smell _too_ bad (Lysol and laundry detergent and steamed peas and urine), and whatever they’re giving him is the good shit because it mostly keeps the bad thoughts away and he sleeps for long periods of time without too many dreams, except for very occasionally when images slip in here and there and because he’s curious (he always was the most curious child his mother said so but his mother’s _dead_ ), he allows himself access to them, just to _test_ himself, just to keep his mind agile, and besides, he gets to see Eames again and hear her voice, even if he knows none of it is real. Because Eames is dead, too.

He knows what’s real and what is not, because he’s not really crazy, until it comes to her, but _this is real_ , what he remembers from that day—

 

//

 

It’s dark in the viewing room, and the flickering, grainy screen takes centre stage. Alex sits uneasily in front of the viewer, with Ross standing to her right, and Jim, the young, nervous tech guy (“You want to watch _what?_ ”), to her left. Ross was able to sneak her in without any of her colleagues seeing, thank god, because she knows she wouldn’t be able to say a single word to anyone, or hear a single word of sympathy, or see a single pitying look, without bursting into tears. So now, here she sits, and she really doesn’t want to watch, but she can’t look away, either. So long ago, it seems, another lifetime, how can it be less than two weeks, and she and Nagy sitting across from one another, long silver table between them. She looks incredibly small and defenseless. She wants to reach through the screen and grab herself by the shoulders, tell herself to run before it’s too late. But, it _is_ too late, even now, because Nagy has leaned forward, and even from her vantage point through the screen, she can see his eyes go flat and dead, can see his fingers grip the table, can almost _hear_ Bobby behind her—

 

//

 

—his hands flat against the window, pounding, pounding out a frantic warning to her, pounding hard enough, he thinks, to shatter the glass. He sees her shoulders go back, her whole body tense because she knows something has changed, that the _real_ Nagy has emerged at last, and maybe she’s remembering his words of caution, too, and she _knows_ how dangerous he is, she saw it herself on the girl in the morgue, so why isn’t she moving, why isn’t she running, because Bobby knows what’s coming even before it happens, before Nagy stands and grabs the chair and shoves it under the door handle and turns back to her—

 

//

 

—and slaps her hard and fast across the face as she’s reaching for her gun (too slow too fucking _slow_ but I was so surprised I can’t be blamed I can’t) and she manages to kick him once, twice, which only infuriates him more, and he picks her up and _throws_ her, and what surprises Alex is how _fast_ it all happens, seconds, really, but she keeps it together as she watches, not flinching, not making a sound as she sees him race after her body and he starts hitting her and kicking her, making low grunts with the exertion (no wonder I’m so fucking _sore_ you asshole). She can see the other Alex tiring, cowering, hunching over for protection, but again it’s too late and she knows all she’s thinking is _Where the fuck are you, Bobby?_ and—

 

//

 

—how he gets to the door he will never remember (in a jiffy Eames, be there in a jiffy, 1/100th of a second, okay?), but he does remember slamming his shoulder up against it so hard he bruises the next day, though he never sees the bruise himself, because by then he’s heavily sedated in a psychiatric hospital. But now, the door flies open and Bobby flies through it and flies at the pair of them in the corner and he can hear the sounds of him punching her, the indescribable sounds of his fists and feet on _her body_ and those sounds rip his tenuous hold on sanity clean off, at least temporarily, because—

 

//

 

—the dark monster of her nightmares isn’t a monster at all, she sees, but Bobby, looming over them, enraged and screaming at Nagy to STOPSTOPRIGHTNOW. He’s screaming stop over and over again and she leans forward, closer to the screen so she doesn’t miss a thing. He got there much, much quicker than it felt, but still too late, in the end, because she can see the other Alex is no longer moving now, not fighting back and not even defending herself anymore, but is simply—

 

//

 

—lying there, motionless, and the blood, all the blood, _her_ blood on her face and in her hair, on the floor beneath, and her arms and legs all splayed awkward, and he sees Nagy, crouched over her, getting ready to kick _again_ and there is a white light that flashes in his head that is bright like lightning or a nuclear explosion, wiping out everything any rational thought in his mind like _don’t touch him because if you do you will fucking kill him and then you’ll be in big trouble_ and he grabs Nagy around the neck with a roaring sound that is a scream because the scream also erases anything else that is in his head like _he’s killed her because I didn’t get here fast enough the fucker killed her she’s dead she’s dead now and I killed her just like he did_ and with his hands tight around Nagy’s neck he _slams_ his head down on the floor over and over and _over_ —

 

//

 

—and _over_ and this time she does make a sound like a gasp or cry, and she does flinch and puts her hand over her mouth and Ross looks at her, watches her watching Bobby wrap his hands around Nagy’s neck, drag him down, slam his head down onto the concrete once, twice, three times, four, five, until four hulking, bellowing officers converge like a tumble of dark thunderclouds, and there’s a lot of grappling and arms flailing and yelling and they wrestle him away, away, off the screen and only two figures are left lying there, both completely still, both very bloody, both looking very dead.

The tape ends, the screen goes black. It’s quiet in the room but for Alex’s harsh breaths that keep catching in her throat, which is dry and pinched painfully closed. Jim the tech guy fiddles with some buttons and looks at no one, especially Alex.

Ross coughs, and coughs again.

“Eames…I’m sorry, but I thought you needed to—”

“What I need,” she says in a voice that doesn’t sound quite like hers, “is to go home now. What I need is…a good sleep.” She looks directly at Ross, her eyes dry. “I have an appointment in the morning.”

 

//

 

Her apartment — recently cleaned by her sister, she assumes — smells like lemon and Windex with undertones of apple spice and completely unlike herself. The rug has been vacuumed, coffee table tidied, laundry done and put away. She suspects her books have been _alphabetized_ , but she’s too scared to look.

(A place for everything and everything—)

She looks around helplessly, without a thought on how to proceed. One thing, she thinks. Do one thing. Then, when that thing is done, do the next thing. Much easier than trying to do it all at once, or even _think_ about doing it all at once.

She shoulders off her coat. It falls to the floor. Fine. That’s fine. It’s done. She kicks off her shoes. Done. She takes a deep breath, and another. Good. Breathing is good. Keep breathing. She goes to her impossibly clean kitchen and pours a glass of water. She drinks it. She pours another. She drinks that one, too. Then, she throws it all up in the sink. Done. She wipes her mouth. Keep breathing.

She goes to the bathroom (lemon), washes her face. Her skin feels dry and gritty beneath her fingertips. The room feels too big. Everything is too big after the miniscule world of the hospital room. There is _too much space_. She might go crazy if left too long in here. No. Bad word. Wrong word.

Keep breathing. Good.

She runs a bath and undresses and stares at herself in the bathroom mirror. It’s the first time she’s really looked at herself, she realizes. Not good. Too many unnatural colours. Later. I’ll think about how I look later.

She gets in the bath, which is hot. Good. She slides down until her chin touches the top of the water, (take a breath) then even further, until her head is submerged and strands of her hair float on the surface. Not breathing now, she thinks. But, that’s good, too.

Finally, after she’s washed and dried and dressed and has called her parents _and_ her sister to let them know she’s _fine_ and _very tired_ and has taken her pain medication and is going to sleep _right now_ , she rolls over in her bed, pushes her face into her pillow ( _her_ bed, _her_ pillow thank god), and replays the impossible images from the tape over and over and _over_ in her mind and cries like her heart is cracking wide open.

 

//

 

The hospital is large and imposing and sterile and everything she imagined, really. Her father drops her off at the front with promises to return when she calls.

“All right?” he asks, his eyes alight with worry.

She nods, her throat too tight to speak. She kisses his cheek, opens the door with a sweat-slick hand, walks on wobbly legs with a sick stomach.

She is buzzed in, signed in, waves her badge, shows she has no gun, no knife, no drugs, and she’s suddenly gripped with a fear so ragged and intense she stops and closes her eyes, fighting back a surge of nausea.

 _Bobby is in_ here? _No. No no no. It isn’t possible it isn’t_ right.

“Detective Eames.” A nurse appears, shakes her damp hand. “We halved his medication today in anticipation of your visit.”

How thoughtful.

“He’s more lucid than usual, but still confused. Don’t worry, though, he’s no longer violent.” She leans forward in what she believes to be a comforting manner. “He won’t hurt you.”

Alex blinks back hot tears. You are all so stupid, she thinks. And _this_ is so stupid and so wrong and all of you fucking people are just so fucking _stupid_. “He’d never hurt me. Ever,” is what she says instead, to no one in particular and anyone within listening distance.

The nurse just smiles gently in an I-Know-Better kind of way and pats Alex’s arm. Alex wants to kick her, hard. “He’s in there.” She points to a room to the right, then walks away. Alex stands still for a moment, feeling her heart knock around in her chest like a wild thing trying to escape, then she makes her feet move forward, towards the room on the right.

 

//

 

It has been a rather typical morning for Bobby, consisting of waking (7 a.m.), rising (7:30 a.m.), dressing (blue shirt, jeans, slippers at 7:45 a.m.), medicating (8 a.m., not as many pills today, for some reason), eating (eggs and toast at 8:30 a.m.), a visit from someone with a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff (9 a.m.), and finally a trip to the dayroom (9:30 a.m.), which is where he’s been waiting now for more than an hour. Waiting for what, he’s not sure, but he feels he must be waiting for something, or someone, because…well. _Because._

He’s sitting on the striped sofa and staring at the opposite wall (light green, three framed photos of flowers), and staring out the window (trees, birds) and staring down at his hands (large, long-fingered, dangerous, a killer’s hands—nono, stopthatnow), which actually feel connected to his arms today (strange, that), when, as so often happens these days, he hears her voice.

“Bobby?”

He looks up and his vision focuses a little quicker than usual (also strange) and yes, there she is, standing a few feet away, staring at him. But, she’s _dead_ , he knows, so he’s imagining this. He smiles, but she doesn’t smile back. She looks, actually, like she might be crying, which concerns him.

“Oh, Bobby.” She _is_ crying, but she wipes her eyes quickly, so he won’t see (but he already has and why wouldn’t she want him to see anyway strange, strange day).

“Eames?” He closes his eyes. He opens them. She’s still there, staring at him with stricken, disbelieving, wet eyes, and he forces himself to focus _harder_ , and it works, because he sees her more clearly than he has in a long time and ohgod her _face_ —

“You’re…you’re all messed up.” He stares at her, his eyes tracing the map of purples and yellows across her forehead and cheeks, the puce-colour swelling around her left eye. “What happened to your _face_?” He knows his voice is getting louder and he feels a white hot anger roiling and rising in his gut and realizes he hasn’t felt that for awhile. He hasn’t felt _anything_ for awhile. Something is…different.

Her hand flutters up to touch self-consciously. Her _right_ hand, he notices, because her _left_ is held in a sling against her sweater and what the _fuck_ is going on?

“It doesn’t matter, okay? Okay? Nothing matters right now except—”

And, as he so often does when he hears her voice, he reaches out for her…but, this time he actually touches her. Or, rather, she touches him, which is odd. She moves closer and takes his hand, puts it to her cheek. It’s wet. His mind processes this fact. Her face is warm, and it’s wet. What does this mean? Her face has never been warm and wet before. Because, she’s dead. She’s dead.

Isn’t she?

“Who hurt you?” The anger is still there, still throbbing and threatening, but he’s keeping it at bay, because something is _definitely_ different today.

She shakes her head. “Bobby—”

His mind whirls, clinks and clanks and things start to fall into place (a place for everything and everything—) and he shakes his head clear, clearer than it’s been in days and days.

“Are you really here?” he asks then, suspicion battling with trepidation and fear and anger.

“Yes. _Yes_. It’s me,” she says, nodding almost furiously. “I’m _here_ I’m not—”

“—not dead.”

“No.”

Oh. Oh _god_.

And at last she comes very close and she puts her arms around him in a desperate, clumsy hug, and half falls onto him, into his lap, and she buries her face in his neck and digs her good fingers into his back and he can _smell_ her and _touch_ her and ohgod it _is_ her, not some vision, not some delusion, and he sucks in breath and puts his arms around her (they don’t feel like lead today but only logs so it’s easier), and he pulls her to him, hoping he doesn’t hurt her but desperate to get her as close as possible because he can’t let her get away again, and he does hear her make a noise against the skin of his neck when he clutches her, but it isn’t a gasp of pain, no, she’s crying and laughing at the same time, which, he realizes, means she’s happy, maybe, and maybe he is, too, almost unbearably so.

Something different, indeed.

 

//

 

_tbc_


	5. A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **These characters do not belong to me**.

//

 

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep  
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;  
Although I love you, you will have to leap;  
Our dream of safety has to disappear.  
 _~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look_

 

//

 

He _is_ hurting her, badly, but she doesn’t care, because damn if she’s even going to _think_ about pulling away from him now, when they’ve never done this before, never even come close, never done anything more than brushed arms in passing, and this, it feels _so good_ , except for her ribs, her arm, her bruises. _Fuck_. It doesn’t matter, though, because he has his arms around her and he’s real and he _knows who she is_. She had thought, for one horrifying moment, that he might just smile at her politely but vacantly (Hello, there. I’m Bobby. And, you are?), before looking away, to smile politely and vacantly at someone else.

So. He remembers her, and he seems happy to see her, because he’s holding her so very tightly in his lap, against his chest, with his head pressed to her shoulder and she practically has her _lips_ on his neck. He has enveloped her with his being, his smell, his essence, and she really, really doesn’t want to move, despite the persistent aching in almost every part of her body. He’s very warm and rocking ever-so-slightly back and forth, and she thinks she could fall asleep like this. Time spins out. She almost forgets where they are, because she really doesn’t want to remember.

For a moment she even considers whispering _Run_ into his ear, grabbing his hand and the two of them just taking off, making a break for it, knocking down anyone and anything in their way, nurses and patients, locked doors. But then what? She doesn’t even have a damn car (Hi, Dad? Come get me…oh, and Bobby?), and what a pair they’d make, she with her taped ribs and sprained arm, and Bobby with his glazed expression and institution-issue slippers, wandering aimlessly around New York, waiting for someone to take pity on them.

The nurse pokes her head around the corner and makes a clucking sound of stern disapproval and Bobby’s entire body goes tense, like they’re teenagers caught necking on the front porch after curfew, so Alex slides off his lap reluctantly and sits beside him, close, but not touching. They don’t speak and don’t look at one another for awhile. She very much wants to take his hand, but the moment has passed and it suddenly feels awkward between them. He clears his throat, presses his hands down flat on his thighs.

“Your face,” he whispers, glancing sideways at her, then away, then back again. His jaw tenses.

“It’s okay. I’m…fine. Looks worse than it feels.”

“Bullshit.” He is speaking so quietly she has to lean closer to hear him. “I remember, you know. I remember…what happened. The drugs…keep me from thinking too clearly. But, I remember. It’s just when I saw you…I forgot for a moment, because I thought…”

“That I was dead.”

He nods.

She wants to say _sorry_ , wants to scream it, and the word is actually in her mouth before she realizes it’s just too small and useless for what she’s feeling. Sorry, Bobby. Sorry for not listening to you, for not taking your warnings seriously, sorry that you cared enough about me to kill Nagy in a blind fury, sorry for you ending up in here, for no one telling you I hadn’t actually died.

Sorry, for everything, including the fact that I have nothing else to offer other than this completely fucking, inadequate, stupid word.

“Bobby—”

“Eames. What…what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. I wanted to…see you.”

He smiles. It’s not a nice smile.

“I think…I think you’re here because you know what I did.”

“What?”

He still will not look directly at her. She stares at the side of his too-pale face.

“You…you watched the surveillance video. Right? You saw it. When? Yesterday, right? After you left the hospital…you sat in a dark room at the precinct with Ross and…what’s that geeky guy’s name…John? The three of you sat there and watched me kill a man and you put on your brave face, barely moving a muscle. No one watching _you_ would think it bothered you in the least. Then you went home and, and had a shower…no, a bath, because of your arm, and then you _finally_ cried and then you went to bed and had nightmares about it…about m-me.”

She’s stunned, and more than a little pissed off.

“Did Ross—”

“No, Eames. No.” He smiles that horrible smile again. “Of course you watched it. Of course. You had to know. You had to see for yourself what I did, what I’m capable of—”

“That is _not_ true. Ross _made_ me, Bobby. He wanted me—”

“—and now you know, right? You know. You saw with your own eyes what I did, what I can do.” He chokes on the last words.

She does not like where this is going. At all.

“Bobby, listen to me. Watching what happened _helped_ me realize how…how bad it was, how dangerous it was. It helped me remember, and _no one_ could blame you—” She tries to take his hand now but he pulls away. He pulls away and clenches his hands into fists on his legs.

“Oh, but they do blame me, or maybe you haven’t heard.” He looks at her then. His eyes are haggard. “Would you like me to give you a tour, Eames? I’m in a mental institution.”

“I’m going to get you _out_ , I promise.”

“How?”

She opens her mouth, closes it. She can’t answer that yet and he knows it.

“I’m not crazy, Eames—”

“I _know_ —”

“You _know_. But what…you came here to…see for yourself? Sign the papers that will put me away forever?” He’s staring at the carpet. Green with pale green flowers. Ugly, ugly carpet.

“No. No! Of course not, Bobby. Come on.”

“But, hey, I trust you.” He shrugs. “We’re partners, right? You got my back. If you think that’s what’s best for me—”

“Would you just stop it, please? God!” She’s yelling. She needs to not yell at him, and she needs to especially not yell at him in here. But what is he _doing?_. Her fingers twist in her lap, pulling at the bottom of her sweater. She chews on her lower lip. When she looks up, he’s watching her. He speaks very slowly, deliberately, as to a dense child.

“I didn’t have a psychotic break, Eames. I’m not schizophrenic… _yet_. I don’t hear voices, or see things that aren’t there. The only thing I saw was you…you…” He’s trying not to cry now. “I saw you through that window…and I thought—”

“I know, Bobby—” God, she just wants to crawl back into his lap and wrap her good arm around him and not let go. She wants to put her mouth on his and kiss him over and over until he’s so breathless he’ll stop fucking _talking_ —

“And I don’t deserve to be here, I know that, but I don’t deserve to be…around _normal_ people either. Good, decent people. I don’t deserve to be around _you_.”

He looks back down, starts picking at an invisible spot on his jeans.

She stops. “That’s…that’s ridiculous. That’s…don’t even _say_ that.”

“Really? Why not?” He shakes his head in frustration. “You really think…no matter what happens, whether I get out of here or not, or you know, serve time in _jail_ or not, that things will ever be the same again?” He looks at her directly and this time he _is_ crying, or at least there are tears, but he’s not letting them go anywhere, and he’s staring at her like he’s seeing her for the first time, and like he’s never going to see her again. “You…you think we’re gonna work together again? Really? Be _partners_? You think _anyone’s_ gonna let that happen? Because if that’s what you think, you’re living in a bigger fucking dreamworld than me.”

And that’s when the damn nurse shows up and tells Alex she needs to talk to her _right now_ , and to please follow her _right now_.

“Bobby…I don’t know what this is about, but I’ll be back, okay? Just…I’ll be back and we’ll talk some more.” She stands and stares down at him. “Okay?”

He laughs and lifts his hands. “Hey. You know where to find me.”

 

//

 

Alex has to move quickly to keep up with the nurse. They stride down several hallways that all look exactly the same, all painted the same pale beige. They stop in front of a pale beige door with J. HARROW stamped on the nameplate.

“Dr. Harrow is Mr. Goren’s attending physician. He just wants a few words with you before he makes his rounds.”

Alex nods and steps inside. Dr. J. Harrow is tall and thin with a thin, pointed face. He looks mean. He smiles briefly, shakes Alex’s hand, motions for her to sit.

“I was just visiting with Bobby and I had a few questions—”

“Actually Ms.— ”

“Detective—”

“—Eames, it’s good you’re here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, you’re listed as Mr.— ”

“ _Detective_ —”

“—Goren’s contact, but a Frank Goren is listed as next of kin. We have been, as yet, unable to reach this Frank Goren.”

“That’s because he died. Recently.”

“Ah.” Harrow makes some notes. “And you have been, until recently, unavailable as well, I understand.” He reads something. “You were…in the hospital?”

“Yes. I was just released yesterday.”

The doctor looks up and peers at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “I see. And…Mr. Goren…he did this to you?” He waves at her face, her arm.

Alex closes her eyes, bites the inside of her cheek. “Are you serious?” She forces herself to stay calm. “Have you not received any of the police reports? Do you people even know what happened, why he’s here?”

Harrow stiffens at this, shuffles his papers. “We have some of the information, of course, but it’s been most difficult getting in touch with people who can help us. We’ve spoken at length with a Captain Ross, but aside from that, there seem to be few people directly related to…the _incident_ who are able, or willing, to assist us. When Mr. Goren was brought in, he himself was…most uncooperative, as you can probably imagine. He was sedated almost immediately and has been kept on rather high doses of diazepam and alprazolam since. He’s given the therapist very little to work with.”

It’s hard to talk coherently when you’re drugged to the gills, she thinks.

“And…that’s it? That’s all you plan to do for him?”

“Well, there are certain police procedures we are subject to. It’s my understanding he could still face jail time. But, that’s not my concern.”

“Of course not.”

He looks at her.

“I can go over some of our proposed treatment plans with you,” he says, “but until Mr. Goren gives you power of medical attorney, you can’t make any medical or legal decisions on his behalf.”

“So…you people just decide? On your own?”

“That’s how it works.”

“Then I’ll go talk to him right now.” She moves to stand, when Harrow holds up a hand.

“Well, that’s a problem, you see. Mr. Goren has obviously already been admitted to a psychiatric facility because his state of mind is in question. He’s no longer able to appoint power of attorney on his own.”

“This is fucking unbelievable.”

Harrow raises his eyebrows.

“It’s my, uh, understanding that Mr. Goren killed a man, less than two weeks ago…with his bare hands.”

Alex stares at him. “Yes?”

Harrow clears his throat, folds his hands on his desk.

“Well, I think retaining a lawyer for him would only be in his best interest…don’t you?”

 

//

 

As soon as he’s sure she’s gone, he counts to 10 (still able to do that at least good boy we’ll try for 11 next time), gets to his feet and staggers from the room. He feels drunk and dizzy and for once he can’t blame the medication. He hates the dayroom and he’s always getting dumped in there when the nurses can’t figure out where else to put him, but now he will forever associate it with Eames, with seeing her again, with holding her on his lap, with her breath on his throat, with—

Eames. Alive. Eames is alive. He might vomit. He might pass out. He might whoop and holler for joy. Instead he forces himself to walk as steadily as possible (mustn’t make a scene they don’t like scenes here no they don’t), one hand sliding along the hallway wall for guidance and strength and his legs holding him miraculously upright as he tries to figure out where to go to think, to think about _what the fuck just happened_.

Eames is alive. Eames is _alive._

How, _how_ is that possible? He had watched, he had _seen_ with his own eyes. She was dead. She was dead and he had helped kill her by allowing her to enter that room alone, alone with a madman.

(If you feel him starting to…to get angry, just back off, all right? Seriously. Just—)

Great fucking advice, very helpful. And now _he’s_ the madman, locked up, away from society. Funny fucking world it was.

He needs to think. He needs to—

There. The Chapel. A little spiritual guidance never hurt, right? And if anyone needs some fucking guidance at the moment, it’s Bobby Whack-Job Goren. He pushes his way inside. It’s dim and cool and _empty_. He collapses into a pew at the very back, lays his head down on the back of the seat in front of him, and hyperventilates for awhile.

He closes his eyes and calls up her image. Her face. Her poor, beautiful, broken fucking _face_ , all purple and yellow and swollen and how when she got close enough he wanted to just kiss it all over, and her lips and her breath against his throat, almost enough to make him hard (but not quite fucking medication), but it’s more than that, more than anything as base as his sex drive. Holding her like that, for the first time ever, he’d been overpowered by another emotion, one he’d always felt but had always kept at arm’s length, until recently, of course, when he had failed rather spectacularly: the urge to kill anyone who hurt her.

(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and and run and—)

And it’s the same question his therapist asks on an almost daily basis, but one which Bobby chooses not to answer. Well, he doesn’t answer any questions, really, he doesn’t say much at all, but it’s a question he refuses to answer even _to himself_ : Why had he killed Nagy for Eames? She’s his partner. His work partner. Why had his first reaction been so immediate, so violent, so all-consuming?

Because. Because—

Too close, too hard. He shakes his head and thinks about something else instead. He thinks about Eames again and how there’s more, he knows. Something else hurts her. He suspects her ribs, but she’s said nothing, and he hasn’t asked, yet, but the way she tensed when he pulled her into his lap and clutched her to him like a drowning man makes him think it has to be her ribs, one, maybe two, and fuck he’s glad that fucker is dead and gone.

(I just think…I think this guy is…unstable…)

And the tape. That fucking tape. As soon as he’d laid eyes on her, as soon as he saw how she was looking at him, he knew. He knew. And now _she_ knew and now what? She would always stick by him, of course, it was both her best and her worst fault, and it would be the end of her one day, might be the end of her now, but the thought of her watching, sitting there with fucking _Ross_ and John? And watching it all play out again in stark black and white as he charged into the room (STOPSTOPRIGHTNOW) and grabbed Nagy and threw him down over and over and over and—

Oh, god. Or, whoever. Patron Saint of Perpetual Fuck-Ups, please hear me now—

He sits alone in the dark and quiet nondenominational psychiatric hospital chapel, and tries to pray, in his way, but instead ends up dropping his head heavily into his hands and his whole body shakes as he sobs like his heart is being cracked wide open.

 

//

 

When she gets back to the dayroom he’s gone, of course. She stands staring at the couch where they’d been sitting not half an hour ago and wonders if any of it had happened at all. Another nurse, not the fast-walking, disapproving one, tells her his room number, and warns her visiting hours are almost over. Alex would like to warn everyone in the place that she’s about to go fucking ballistic, but instead thanks her as politely as possible and walks down another pale beige hallway, to another pale beige doorway.

She peers into his room, wary of what she might find.

But he’s only lying on his bed, fully clothed, curtains pulled, leaving the small room in a kind of gloomy darkness. There is a second bed, neatly made and empty. The room is plain and sterile, not a single bit of Bobby Goren’s personality to be found. No books, no scraps of paper, no pens. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table. She assumes he’s sleeping, so when he speaks, it startles her.

“I just…took my meds, so I don’t know, you know…how long I’ll be…lucid. You could probably tell me anything right now and I won’t remember tomorrow…you could even tell me you love me or something…” He trails off with a small laugh, and her breath hitches in her chest. She can’t tell if he’s looking at her or not. She stands in the doorway, waiting for something. Her breathing sounds too loud. “You…you can come in, you know. I won’t _hurt_ you.” He thinks this is funny, but Alex doesn’t even crack a smile. She feels like crying again, but in all honesty, she’s too tired and sore to do pretty much anything except keep herself vertical. The bed actually looks very inviting. She crosses the room to stand beside it, looks down at him. He looks vulnerable and nervous and oddly young in the dim light. She reaches down and smoothes his hair back off his forehead. He needs it cut. She supposes they do that kind of thing here. Or, maybe not, scissors, and all.

“Bobby…about what you were saying before.”

“Doesn’t matter. Don’t even remember, really.”

“Bullshit,” she says softly, and he laughs, a real laugh, which makes her smile a real smile. “I would never…I will never… _betray_ you in any way. You must know that. Just tell me you know that, okay? Please?”

He takes her hand, _at last_ , and pulls her down so she’s sitting beside him. He reaches up towards her face, as if to touch, but stops just short of contact. His hand is trembling and she’s about to comment on this when he takes her hand in his instead, his thumb tracing circles on her palm, over and over. She stares at their entwined hands, mesmerized by the small, sensual movements. Their breathing evens out at the same time, quiet and steady.

“Some mess, huh?” he says at last.

“Stupid, fucking mess,” she agrees.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I’m s-sorry.”

Ohgod. _Sorry_. She shakes her head and is about to speak when—

“And, I’m really…glad you’re not dead,” he says, and his words are starting to slur a bit, his eyes close a bit. She wonders what the hell they’re giving him.

“Me, too.”

The movement of his thumb slows, then stops, then starts up again, then stops, but he doesn’t let go of her hand.

“You know,” he says, suddenly. “This isn’t…such a bad place…for me. Maybe it’s just…what I need. I really could use…a rest. And maybe some fucking…therapy.”

She starts crying in earnest then, all the tears she’s been blinking back, pushing back, and her ribs hurt _so much_. She pulls her hand free from his and places it on the side of his face, pressing as hard as she can against the soft, warm skin.

“Don’t leave me, okay? Don’t you dare…leave me.” Her tears are mixed in with her snot and under any other circumstances she would be humiliated, but right now she’s _so_ tired. “Don’t…fucking _leave_ me—”

She keeps pressing, squeezing, keeping everything that is essentially Bobby inside him. When she thinks he’s maybe heard her, even a little, she lays her head down on his chest and cries. After a moment she feels his fingers touching her head, tentative, then more firmly, stroking her hair from the top of her head to the ends of the strands, then again, over and over. She’s made the front of his shirt wet and rather slimy. They’re quiet for a bit. She tries to concentrate on nothing else but his fingers in her hair and the gentle rise and fall of his chest under her cheek.

She can hear noises, hospital noises, above the quiet, nurses talking and laughing in the hallway, the clang of a metal cart; in the distance someone is yelling.

“I don’t know how you’re gonna fix this one, Eames. How are you gonna save me this time?”

She laughs, wetly. His hand feels so nice in her hair. Another first, she realizes.

“I’m going to…I’m going to get you a lawyer, and you’re going to give me power of attorney, and then I’m going to get you out of here, all right?”

She sits up, takes his hand and squeezes it, hard.

“Just…promise me…promise me you’ll stay.”

“Sure, Eames. Sure.” He smiles, lifts her hand to his mouth and kisses it, very briefly. It’s dark. She can’t see his face. She can’t see anything. His voice, when he speaks, could be coming from anywhere. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s really nowhere for me to go.”

 

//

_tbc_


	6. Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **These characters do not belong to me**.

//

 

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep  
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;  
Although I love you, you will have to leap;  
Our dream of safety has to disappear.  
 _~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look_

 

//

 

The air outside feels wonderfully cool and clean and cleansing after the stifling, close atmosphere of the hospital. Alex sucks in a few trembling breaths, releases them, rubs her face, hard, blows her nose, then, finally, calls her father, fighting to keep her voice as neutral as possible.

“Everything go okay?” he asks as she slides in the car. He glances at her swollen eyes and smeared makeup.

She nods and shrugs. “About what I expected,” is all she says.

If he knows she’s just finished crying, he doesn’t say; he just smiles and pats her hand gently, which kind of makes her want to start all over again.

 

//

 

“Why doesn’t Goren have a lawyer?”

Ross sighs and leans back in his chair. He looks tired, almost as tired as Bobby, she thinks, but she will _not_ feel sorry for him. It’s a luxury she cannot, _will_ not, afford herself.

“I didn’t think he needed one. He wasn’t being charged with anything.”

Alex snorts and shakes her head. Distrust, she thinks. It’s contagious. Ross seems to read her mind.

“It was my call, Eames, and mine alone. His mom, his brother were both…dead. You were…unavailable. I had to make a decision and my decision was based on his actions and his behaviour. I thought…I felt it best that he simply…”

“Be put away.”

“ _No._ ”

“Yes.”

It’s a staredown. Ross breaks first.

“He wasn’t…coherent.”

“He was distraught.”

“I saw it differently.”

Alex is having trouble controlling her breathing.

“You…people. You’re out to get him.”

“Eames. That sounds very paranoid.”

“It’s not paranoia if it’s true.”

Ross folds his hands on his desk. He doesn’t speak for a long minute. Alex clenches, unclenches her fingers, tries to be patient.

“Eames…this isn’t a witch hunt, despite what you seem determined to believe.”

Alex can’t look at him.

“This is…it never was about _punishing_ Goren. I wanted to help him. You have to see that, or you’re going to be dragged down as quickly as he is. No one is questioning his actions—”

Bullshit, she thinks.

“—they’re questioning his state of mind at the time of his actions. He went…above and beyond the call of duty, so to speak. He didn’t just pull Nagy off you…he destroyed him. With his hands.” He pauses. “Are those the actions of a sane person? That’s what is being reviewed here.”

“He doesn’t see it that way.” She meets Ross’s gaze. “And neither do I.”

“Understandable. But we… _they_ are examining behaviour which, on top of everything else he’s done in his career, doesn’t look…above board. If _you_ had killed Nagy, no one would have given it a second thought. But…you have to know that Goren’s record speaks volumes about his state of mind over the years. He’s not viewed as…a stable person by many.”

Alex nods. She knows. She knows this, even if she has never openly admitted it. She and Bobby have filed it conveniently under “Things We Do Not Talk About.” But, she also _knows_ the truth.

“He’s not crazy,” she says, too quietly. Ross looks at her, but chooses not to comment.

“Look. We can appoint him a lawyer, through the department. There’s someone I’ve been considering, she’s very good, and I think you can meet with her today. All right?”

Alex wants to say something important, something pithy and full of wisdom and something that will force Ross to admit, Yes, you’re right! Goren is completely sane, and we’re the crazy ones! But there are no words, and Ross mistakes her silence for uncertainty, or indecision.

“All _right?_ ” he asks again.

She nods.

“All right.”

 

//

 

Linda Joseph is tall and skinny and nervous and talks very quickly. She wears jeans and a sweatshirt, and her dirty blonde hair is caught up in a messy bun. She taps her pen on the desk repeatedly as she looks over Bobby’s case files. Alex sits across from her, fiddling with a coffee cup, snapping the lid open and closed, and thinking she should just go dump it out. After two sips, her stomach started to churn queasily.

“Well, we have our work cut out for us,” Linda says, leafing through a pile of papers. “Your partner has…quite a track record.”

Alex nods.

“Numerous infractions, violations, trips to psych services, suspensions, some with and some without pay.” She shakes her head slightly, mumbles to herself.

Alex sighs. She’s suddenly exhausted.

“In 2006 he was seen throwing a…Declan Gage up against the interview room wall?”

“That was…” Alex clears her throat, tries to sound both empathetic and detached. “I was…missing.”

Linda looks at her.

“He seems to be…extremely protective of you. Some might say overly so.”

“Some might, I guess.” Alex puts the coffee cup down, picks it back up.

Linda sighs.

“Look, Alex. I’m just saying what is bound to be said during a hearing.”

“A hearing.”

“Well, that’s what we’re aiming for. Get Goren in front of a committee, after a comprehensive psych test that shows a good state of mind, of course, and get him released on the grounds of…temporary insanity.”

“I really don’t think the term insanity should be used in any capacity when it comes to Bobby.”

Linda smiles. “It’s the temporary part we need to focus on.”

“I…don’t know if he’d agree to that, to be honest.”

“Fair enough. But, we need to meet with him, regardless, right? To get him to assign you power of attorney. We can ask him about this at the same time.”

Alex nods reluctantly, takes one last sip of her cold coffee, and wonders when, if ever, her stomach will stop hurting so damn much.

 

//

 

They meet in a small, windowless room at Bellevue. Bobby shakes Linda’s hand, but only looks fleetingly at her, and not at Alex at all.

“I think we may be able to swing this in your favour if we play some sympathy cards,” says Linda. “I see your mother died not long ago. She was…schizophrenic.”

Bobby nods.

“Your brother was murdered. Killed by Nicole Wallace. Declan, your…mentor? Yes? Killed Nicole Wallace, believing it would…help you? He’s now in jail. Your partner was kidnapped. Your nephew is…missing. I mean, it’s enough to send anyone over the edge,” she jokes. Neither Bobby nor Alex smiles. “But, we also have some serious disciplinary problems to deal with. You went undercover into a state mental institution without adequate supervision that led to a six-month suspension.”

Alex nods.

“You’ve had…four psych consultations in…five years.”

Bobby folds his arms, unfolds them.

“And?”

“And…it says prone to paranoia, in this one. Plus, anger issues.” She shuffles the papers, reads from them. “Easily angered. Unable to control anger, anger problems.” She pauses, makes a note on her pad. “Mandated counseling…which you somehow managed to evade. Mandated counseling _again_ , 12 sessions, of which you only attended four, not quite sure how you swung _that_. ‘Extremely reticent to participate.’ Aggressive. In denial. Combative. Argumentative. Uses deflection, including sarcasm and humour, as a means of communication. Unwilling to accept responsibility for his actions.”

Bobby can feel his face burning, can feel Alex’s eyes on him.

He leans forward. “I thought…you were was supposed to be on my side.”

Linda frowns. “I’m trying, Bobby. But, you’re not making my job very easy.”

“Digging my own grave, is the term you’re looking for here, I think,” he says.

Linda smiles. “You do seem to be your own worst enemy.”

“I dunno. I think I’ve made some real-life enemies as well.”

“You single-handedly generate a huge amount of paperwork for your department. You can see why they’re pissed.” She presses her hands flat on the table. “Look. I’m going to be honest with you, because these are all _facts_ on the record, things that will be brought up in a hearing. Even if I get you out of Bellevue…even if you get your job back, you won’t be working with Alex again, of that I’m pretty sure.”

No one speaks for a moment. Alex clenches her hand, chews the inside of her cheek.

“Then there’s no point,” Bobby says quietly.

“Bobby—”

“There is a point,” Linda says, talking over Alex. “The point is to clear your name. To make sure everyone knows your actions were based on practiced police training, with a clear and comprehensive understanding of the inherent danger of the situation, not the impulsive actions of someone teetering on the edge of insanity.” She pauses. “Right?”

“Right,” says Alex quickly. “Definitely.”

Bobby says nothing.

“Listen, temporary insanity can be claimed as a defense whether or not you’re mentally stable at the time of hearing, which you _are_ ,” she adds. “It’s similar to the defenses of ‘diminished capacity’ to understand one’s own actions, or ‘heat of passion,’ and other claims of mental disturbance.” Bobby shifts uncomfortably. “However, mental derangement at the time of an abrupt crime, such as a sudden attack or crime of passion, can be a valid defense, or at least show lack of premeditation to reduce the degree of the crime.”

There’s a long pause.

“Well, I do prefer ‘crime of passion,’” Bobby says at last, and looks directly at Alex for the first time.

“Fine,” Linda says. “You two do seem to have a certain…connection that might draw empathy. She pauses. “Are you…together?”

“What?” Alex says.

“I’m not judging, but if you are, I need to know, because it’s something else that will be questioned—”

“No, no. We’re…n-not,” Bobby says, and Alex nods in agreement and both of them look everywhere but in each other’s direction.

Linda raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She pauses, as if pondering something. Then:

“You need to work with them, Bobby, ok? With the doctors. With your therapist. Really work. Stop fooling around.”

“I don’t—”

She waves the sheaf of papers in the air ( _Argumentative. Unable to take responsibility for his actions_ ), and he stops talking. “No more games.”

He nods, tersely.

“Ok,” Linda smiles. “ _Good_. Now… _I_ need to work on getting you out of here, yes?”

 

//

 

His therapist’s name is Brian. He’s balding and paunchy, with a penchant for sweater vests and clip-on ties. They meet every afternoon, _every single afternoon_ , and Bobby quickly learns he can only evade the tough questions for so long, because, really, what choice does he have anymore?

“How are you sleeping?”

“On my right side, usually.”

“Bobby.”

“Sorry, sorry. Uh. Not…great. Lots of…dreams.”

Brian scribbles something down.

“About anything in particular?”

(Alex getting slapped across the face, thrown across the room, his own hands slamming uselessly against glass three-feet thick—)

“Nope.”

“It wouldn’t be unusual to be dreaming, reliving even, the event that brought about your ending up here.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Huh.” Bobby rubs the back of his neck. “And would it make me _crazy_ if I…didn’t relive it?”

Brian smiles. “You realize your capability as a police officer — your capability as a _person_ , in fact — will be hampered on every level if you constantly question yourself, doubt your intentions, question your sanity.”

“Do _you_ question it?”

“No, I don’t, Bobby.”

This brings him up short. “You d-don’t?”

“No.” Brian leans forward. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Question your sanity.”

(Deflect, deflect!)

“I dunno.” He laughs. “What’s that old saying? If you’re asking yourself if you’re crazy, then you probably have nothing to worry about.”

Brian sighs and writes in his notepad again. Bobby scratches his cheek, stares out the window and wonders what Eames is doing.

 

//

 

Alex spends an inordinate amount of time at Bellevue, something that both pleases and puzzles Bobby to no end. When she’s not sitting with him, she’s talking to various nurses, doctors, his _therapist_ , for crying out loud. He never asks what they’re discussing, and she never offers any information, because it’s a conversation neither one of them seems to want to have.

She’s usually content just to sit with him, discussing whatever he feels like sharing, which isn’t much (Fish for lunch today; Got to use a safety razor by myself! But, the nurse stayed to watch), but today she’s antsy. She glances out the windows behind them.

“Do you want to…go for a walk, or something?”

“What…up and down the hallways?”

She tilts her head. “You do have grounds privileges. I checked.”

“No one tells me anything.”

He grabs a jacket and they push out into the courtyard, where patients huddle on benches, stroll with family members, stand in a circle sucking on cigarettes. Bobby and Alex wander around the perimeter, not talking, but it’s fine, because it just feels so good to be _out_ that it’s all Bobby can really focus on.

Then, the sun emerges from behind a cloud, showering them in unexpected golden light. Alex sighs and smiles and tilts her head back to let it bathe her face. It takes his breath away, the sight of her standing like that, still and quiet, a little smile on her lips and he thinks about kissing her just then, thinks about what a good story that would make to tell _someone_ , someday, thinks about how her mouth might feel under his (not for the first time, of course, but the first time in a mental institution and there’s a first time for everything, right?). He also thinks about maybe holding her hand, just reaching out and grabbing it, because he’s pretty sure she’d be okay with that, and it wouldn’t be _too_ weird, just to walk, holding her hand. But, just as he’s getting up the nerve to do it, her cell rings and she startles and opens her eyes and fumbles for it, and the moment is gone, just like that, and Bobby can’t really believe he was considering doing it at all.

 

//

 

“Do you regret what you did?”

“Which part?” It’s raining, and the sound of rain slapping against the window makes Bobby uneasy. “I don’t regret saving Eames.”

“No. But the next part, after you’d pulled him off her. Do you think you went too far?”

“Obviously.”

“Why obviously?”

“Because he’s dead and I’m in here.”

“So if you could do it over, you’d do it differently.”

Bobby stops, listens to the rain on the window, the steady slapslap, sees Eames in his mind, sees Nagy trying, with all his might, to _kill her right in front of him_ and realizes then—

“No. No, I wouldn’t.” He fidgets. “But, I didn’t mean to kill him. I…d-didn’t.”

Brian nods, writes something down.

“I…I honestly don’t remember too much, after I pulled him off.”

“What _do_ you remember?”

(A pounding a screaming blood and slamming slamming slamming—)

He shakes his head. “Maybe I am crazy, after all.”

“Do you wonder if you are?”

Bobby stops fidgeting then, stops looking out the window, stops pretending none of this matters, or that he doesn’t care, or that he doesn’t want to get out. He looks at Brian.

“Every single day.”

Brian nods, as if pleased.

“L-look…I’m not used to…talking about myself. Ever.”

“Not to friends? Confidantes?”

Bobby starts to speak, then stops, shakes his head.

“Do you keep a journal?”

“No.”

“Maybe it would be good for you, to talk about yourself a bit, write it down, sort some of the issues out.”

“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Sounds self-absorbed.”

“It sounds lonely.”

Lonely. Bobby almost laughs. He has been lonely his entire life.

“What about Alex? Do you talk to her?”

Bobby shakes his head.

“Don’t you trust her?”

Bobby laughs. “More than anyone. Anything.”

Brian puts down his notepad. “Then, it’s no wonder you did what you did. How could you stand by and watch the one person left in your life who has been there for you always, almost get killed?”

“Well, if you put it _that_ way.”

“Bobby.” Brian leans forward. “It not only sounds lonely, but scary as well.”

“Scary?” Bobby echoes.

“The possibility of being _completely_ alone.”

Oh. There is a long pause, the longest one yet. Bobby weighs his options, thinks of Linda (You need to work with them, ok? Stop playing games) and fuckit, decides to go for it.

“I’m scared all the time.”

Brian nods, waits. “Of what, do you think?”

Bobby shrugs.

“One thing, Bobby. Start with one thing that scares you, and we’ll go from there.”

“There _is_ only one thing,” Bobby says at last. “Losing Eames.”

 

//

 

She finds him in the dreaded dayroom, leafing through a magazine ( _People_ ), and counting the minutes until her arrival. She’s wearing a light coat over a red sweater and she’s taken off her sling and her hair is tousled and she’s slightly out of breath.

“I have a surprise for you,” she says.

He lifts an eyebrow.

“A beer? A haircut? Some adequate footwear?”

“Better,” she grins, brandishing a sheet of paper. “A pass.”

His eyes widen skeptically.

“A pass.”

“I’ve been working on it for awhile. They say you’re doing so…well in counseling, and taking your meds and everything, that…it would be all right.”

“I…d-don’t get it. Where…are we going?”

“Home. My home,” she says, almost gleefully, her cheeks reddening. “You’re mine…well, for 24 hours, anyway.”

And in that moment he’s both wildly elated and utterly terrified, a most interesting combination of feelings that he’s sure Brian will have something fascinating and earth-shattering to say about next session.

 

//

 

He’s been in her apartment before, but not for a long time, and never under circumstances like these, and, well, everything feels completely _different_ anyway. He wanders around, looking at photos and knickknacks, picking things up and putting them down. He smells a candle (vanilla), and a vase of half-dead flowers (Get well soon! Love Aunt Mary). He stops in front of her bookshelf, curious at first, and then intrigued, and then practically joyful.

“Your _books_ —”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” She sighs, from behind him. “Liz did it,” she adds quickly. “Believe me, wasn’t _my_ idea—”

“No, no. It’s good, actually. Because look, here, Beckett is next to Bukowski, which is handy, because—”

“Bobby.” He looks at her and she’s grinning. It’s been so long since he’s seen that, it catches him off guard. “That’s your kind of thing, not mine.”

“And your sister’s, apparently.” Bobby’s finger trails over the spines. _Carver, Larsson, MacDonald._ “If she and her husband ever split, maybe you can set us up.”

Even though it’s a joke, and she knows it’s a joke, and she should be thrilled that he’s attempting to _make_ a joke, her chest actually hurts a bit when she hears it, and she turns away quickly before he can see the expression on her face, which looks a little like heartache.

“You…hungry?” she says.

He shakes his head. “Just thirsty. The…meds.”

“Okay.”

He follows her into the kitchen. She opens a cupboard door— “I can’t offer you beer, but I have plenty of cold tap water—”, reaches up to grab a glass, then gasps and pulls her arm back down quickly, pulling it close to her side. She glances around to see if he noticed: He did. Of course, he did.

He moves to her, peers down into her face, which is tense with pain.

“Eames,” he says.

She takes a deep breath, tries to smile. “I just…forget sometimes. Have to take it easy.”

“Your…ribs.”

She looks at him. “How did you—”

“I’m a fairly observant person.” _Especially when it comes to you._

“Right.”

“M-may…I see?”

She raises an eyebrow, wonders if she’s understood his request. “See…my _ribs_?”

He nods, suddenly serious. “Yeah.”

They stare at one another. She can hear her kitchen clock ticking. She’s overly aware of her breathing, and of Bobby, watching her _think_. She blinks.

“Not a chance,” she says at last, smirking. “And just for that, you can get your own glass, okay?”

He settles on her couch with his water and one of her books (Europe On A Budget!). She putters around her apartment and every time she catches sight of him, reading or watching TV or watching _her_ , her heart does a little flip-flop. She’s just so _happy_ to have him here. She makes tea and sits beside him, steals glances at his profile.

“Your hair is really long.”

“Yeah.”

She sips her tea, wonders if she dares.

“You said you want it cut.”

He looks at her.

“I can…do it for you. If you want.”

“What?”

“One of my many hidden talents,” she says, smiling.

“I bet,” he says, and because he suddenly wants her to touch him, touch any part of him, really, he agrees. “Just don’t make it look like I’m in an institution.”

He sits on a chair in the kitchen, more nervous than he needs to be, he thinks. It’s just _hair_ , after all, but he knows that’s not what he’s nervous about at all.

“Used to do this for Joe sometimes,” she says, draping a towel around his chest and tucking it into the collar of his shirt, “when we had no money for such luxuries as haircuts.”

“You let him cut yours, too?”

She snorts. “Seriously? Are you nuts?”

Oh. Shit.

“The jury’s out on that,” he says, and smiles up at her. He then tries, very hard, to not make any inappropriate noises when her fingers touch his hair, or his neck, or his ears, and he concentrates instead on the steady, gentle snip of the scissors, the quiet in between, her intent expression as she stand in front of him, judging length on both sides.

“Done,” she says too soon and at last, and leads him into the bathroom. They stand side by side in front of the small mirror, her expression both hopeful and anxious. He turns his head back and forth and smiles

“Looks good,” he says, and it does. She smiles, too, relieved, and removes the towel, shakes it over the tub.

“Bobby,” she says then, in dismay, peering into the toilet. “What have you done?” His medication, the brightly coloured pills doled out before they left, are swimming in the bowl. All of them. Oh, he remembers. Yeah. That. “You…you can’t just _stop_ like that—”

“Yeah. I can. I am.”

“Bobby. I’m serious. You heard the doctor. You could get really sick—”

“I don’t care. It’s just one night. One night. They turn my mind to _mush_. I can’t think…I can’t…eat. I sleep too much, and have…horrible dreams. I can’t…I can’t _see_ you.”

“What?”

He shakes his head. So hard to explain. “I look at you and you’re…fuzzy. I can’t see you clearly. Don’t you get it?” He grips his head. “They fuck me all up and I just need a break from them. For tonight. Okay?”

“Okay. Okay.” She reaches up to brush tiny pieces of hair off his shoulders, smiles a little to show him she’s not so mad, but by the look on his face, she’s not sure he believes her.

 

//

 

The shakes start while they’re watching TV, just as the late news is starting.

“Bobby?”

He grinds his teeth, digs his fingers into his thighs. Sweat beads along his hairline, trickles down the sides of his face. Alex turns the television off, kneels in front of him, peers into his face. His jaw is clenched tight.

“Are you all right? What can I do?”

A hug would be nice, he thinks, but then he’s clutching his stomach, and then he’s in the bathroom, vomiting into her toilet, so he never get a chance to tell her.

Then Eames is there behind him, her hand on his back, a cool washcloth across his neck.

When he is pretty sure he’s emptied his entire stomach, he brushes his teeth, rinses his mouth with mouthwash, and follows her into the bedroom. It feels strange to be in here, but familiar, too, and he doesn’t even protest as she guides him onto the bed, between the sheets, and lies down behind him. He is still trembling, his stomach still roiling. She turns off the last light. He can feel the mattress dip, hears her shift and move closer. She’s behind him, waiting for something. Then, her hand is on his back, between his shoulder blades, moving in a slow, steady motion: up, down, back and forth. And again. He’s never felt anything quite so sensual, or so soothing.

“This isn’t exactly how I pictured sleeping with you the first time,” he says, because he knows how to ruin a moment. Her hand stops moving. She is completely silent.

 _Oh boy_.

“So,” she says finally, “you’ve thought about that, then?” She sounds like she’s joking, but only just.

He licks his lips. He could really, really use a glass of water. “Haven’t you? I mean…it’s okay, if you h-haven’t, I’d understand, I mean—”

“Of course I have,” she says so quietly he almost doesn’t catch it.

God, his heart hurts, along with almost every other part of his body.

“Eames—”

“Get some sleep, Bobby. You’re…exhausted, and we don’t have to…think about that right now, okay?” Then, in a teasing voice, “Besides, if I bring you back in bad shape tomorrow, they’ll never let me take you home again.” Her hand starts moving again between his shoulder blades, up, down, back and forth, up, down, back and forth. Hypnotic.

“Make me sound like a library book,” he whispers, and he can _hear_ her smile. Almost against his will, his eyes close. He listens to her breathing, and his own, feels the motion of her hand (up, down, back and forth, up, down—), thinks about what has been said, and what hasn’t, wonders if they’ll ever speak of it again, and he falls asleep.

 

//

 

And in his dream he’s screaming and kicking and punching and when he looks down, it’s not Nagy but Eames looking back at him—

 

//

 

—and he jerks up a start, disoriented, confused, heart pounding, but he’s no longer nauseous, and he feels wide awake for once. It’s still dark, all shadows and strange noises, everything amplified. He sits and peers into darkness, then down beside him. He sees her small shape there, lying on her side facing him.

Eames.

He lies down again, slowly, slowly, desperate to not disturb her. As his eyes adjust, he can see her, see her face, her bare arms (she changed from her day clothes into a long, loose T-shirt while he was sleeping and for some reason this makes his chest tighten), and he can see the bruises, still not faded. The marks from where Nagy kicked and punched her, her face, the pale skin of her arms. He dares to put his hand on her hip, dares to slide her T-shirt up, up, exposing her thigh: there is a large, dark bruise there, yellowing around the edges. Bobby’s eyes prickle. He moves her shirt up even further, so slowly, past her waist, up over her ribs. He sees the tape at last, and the extensive bruising beneath it. He listens to her deep, steady breaths for three counts, then leans down and places his mouth there, on her side, on the darkest part of the bruise. He breathes in the scent of her skin, soap and lotion and analgesic cream, lets his mouth linger there, lets a calm wash over him.

Then he feels her fingers in his hair.

He startles, pulls away. “Sorry. I just…your ribs…I know you said no… _Sorry—_ ”

Her fingers guide him up, up towards her face and he’s still babbling, apologizing, waiting for her to admonish him, or smack him, ask him _who the hell he thinks he is_ —

—but instead she kisses him, on the mouth, full and soft and serious, her hand on the side of face and her soft breaths brushing along his cheek. After a stunned moment he kisses her back, of course, because it’s _her_ , and she’s kissing him voluntarily, and even if it is a dream, he’s taking full fucking advantage.

The kisses grow more intense very quickly, with tongues sliding and noses bumping — she catches his lower lip between her _teeth_ — and Bobby comprehends that she’s kissing him _like she means it_.

But, means what, exactly?

She kisses his face, his neck, and he fumbles with his hands, groping for purchase, ends up brushing against her breasts, and he can’t help but groaning, which makes her kiss him even _harder_. 

_Ohgodohgod—_

Because he’s still not convinced it’s not a dream (meds in the toilet made me actually lose my mind maybe), he slides a hand down her stomach, over her underwear, between her legs, and can feel the dampness there, and it’s all so fucking _surreal_ —

She reaches for him, too, but he stops her, almost immediately. “I…it’s all right. I…the pills. One of the _many_ great side effects.” He laughs a little, is glad it’s still dark enough that she can’t see his face. “Even if I wanted to…which I _do_ , believe me… and of anyone, you’re the one who could…but. J-just let me…okay? Is that okay? This time?”

_This time._

Those words, with their thick, heavy implication, hang between them, but before he can clarify, or even take them back, she kisses him again, harder than before, spreading her legs and _guiding his fingers beneath her underwear_ , against her slick skin, his fingers sliding in and ohgod, she’s wet, she’s actually wet and she’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s moving closer, giving him more access, kissing him harder and his fingers move and slide, back and forth, in and out and he can feel himself growing hard for the first time in a long while and he ducks his head, pulls her shirt up and finds her breasts, his tongue moving, and she gasps, her breaths hitching, her _hands_ all over him, making him even harder than he thought possible and then—

She goes stiff, shudders beneath him, against him, around him. Her mouth goes lax against his, her head falling back slightly, her fingers curling into his shirt, grasping his skin almost painfully, her hips still moving against his fingers with a sensuality that almost, almost, sends him over the edge, too.

She makes a sound that is a little like a sob and kisses him again, hard and sloppy at the same time, and he curls his hand around the back of her neck, pulls her close, her head under his chin.

They don’t speak. He doesn’t want to, and he hopes she doesn’t either, because this, right now, is as close to pure happiness as he’s ever felt in his _fucking life_. She must hear his thoughts, because she falls asleep almost immediately, curled into him, skin-sweaty. He kisses her damp hairline, and listens to her breathing even out, watches her, and thinks, very hard, about a lot of things.

He does not sleep.

 

//

 

She’s alone when she wakes in the morning and she knows, knows before she even sees him, what has happened.

_Q: What’s the quickest way to ruin a friendship?_

_A: Fuck around with your best friend._

He’s in the living room, perched on the couch, his coat on and his bag at his feet.

“I think I need to go back now.”

She stops and looks at him, glances at the clock. “But…we still have four hours.” She’s sleepy and disoriented and suddenly feels like crying, or maybe stamping her foot. It’s not _fair_.

He swallows, rubs a hand over his face. “I-I know. I’m sorry. I just…I don’t feel that good and…I need to go back. Okay?”

 

“Okay. Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll get dressed.” She closes the bedroom door behind her and allows herself only one very small sob into her balled-up sweater, because she kind of knew this is how it might end up being between them, if they ever let it get to this.

 

//

 

He’s silent and still on the drive, staring out the window, his bag on his lap.

At least his hair looks good.

She pulls up in front of the hospital, fully expecting him to get out and walk away without a word, but he surprises her yet again.

“That was a… mistake, what happened,” he says to the window. “I apologize, okay?”

“For which part?” she says, her voice just barely trembling.

“You shouldn’t…you’re already in too deep with me, you know? We shouldn’t be….any more involved than we already are.”

He clutches the door handle (those fingers were inside me last night so yeah it’s already too late you jerk, she thinks), and moves to leave.

“I don’t agree.”

“It was a mistake,” he says again. She kind of wants to tell him to shut up already.

“I don’t think it was a mistake,” she says instead, very quietly.

“I can’t… _be_ with you, Eames. I can’t be with anyone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Eames.” He looks at her in disbelief, as if she’s stupid, maybe, or drunk. He speaks slowly and deliberately. “I killed someone. I can’t take that back. That…what I did, changes everything. I don’t know what’s…going to happen, after the hearing. W-we don’t know _anything_.”

I know how I feel about you, she wants to say, but she doesn’t, because she can tell by looking at him that it’s about the last thing he wants to hear.

“It doesn’t change us,” she says.

He pulls the handle.

“There is no us.”

He doesn’t slam the car door, he doesn’t even close it hard. It just falls shut on its own with a solid thunk, but it’s the loudest sound in the world, a complete sound, a dull finality, and he walks away without looking back, not even once.

 

//

_tbc_


	7. Although I love you, you will have to leap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **These characters do not belong to me**.

//

 

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep  
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;  
Although I love you, you will have to leap;  
Our dream of safety has to disappear.  
 _~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look_

 

//

 

What Eames remembers most about the hearing, at least when she attempts to remember it afterwards, are two things, really:

One: That her stomach _really_ hurts through most of it, but she’s not even drinking coffee, or much of anything else, really.

And two: Bobby doesn’t look at her directly. Not once.

The hearing is held in a small room at the precinct. The front of the room is dominated by a podium, with a chair situated beside it, and several tables shoved together behind; the rest of the room is filled haphazardly with chairs, the really uncomfortable metal ones, though, in the end, only half of them end up being used, because, she supposes, not that many people are really invested in Bobby Goren’s immediate future.

A bunch of people talk, and Alex has a hard time focusing on all of them, or comprehending what they’re saying. Dr. J. Harrow talks, pompously, (When Detective Goren was brought in, he was…most uncooperative, sedated almost immediately…blahblahblah), and Ross bullshits beautifully, bless him, (One of the best, most intuitive detectives I’ve ever had the privilege of working with). Fucking _Moran_ talks, but he’s not as horrible as Eames anticipates, (Goren is nothing if not _determined_. I mean, he gets the job done, I’ll give him _that_.) Brian talks, not about anything personal, of course, but about _how hard_ Bobby has been working, _how intent_ he seems about getting better, how he hasn’t missed _a single appointment_. Alex talks, too, and she has to tell the whole fucking story _again_ , but at least manages to not cry this time. Well, not much, anyway: (And he slapped me hard across the face as I was reaching for my gun, but I managed to kick him once or twice, which only infuriated him more, and he picked me up and _threw_ me, and it all happened so _fast_ ). And on and on and _on_.

She stares at a spot on the back wall the entire time she talks. Well, not the entire time. She glances at Linda, who is nodding encouragingly, and at Ross, who looks stricken and pale, and she glances at Bobby, but Bobby seems intent on staring at some spot on the table in front of him, which doesn’t make him look, in her opinion anyway, completely sane, but whatever. He’s calm and still, at least.

She heaves a huge sigh of relief when she’s done, kind of staggers back to her seat, and collapses, wishes her legs would stop trembling and her ribs would stop aching, but neither of those things seem to be in the cards today.

Then, Amanda Keeler speaks. Nagy’s last girl. Well, the last before Eames. The Girl Who Got Away. She speaks to the room via videotape, on a machine wheeled to the front of the room, because she’s still in the hospital.

Alex grips the seat of her chair, manages to ignore the dull throb of her chest and head as she watches and listens and thinks:

 _That could have been me_.

Amanda, with her blonde hair pulled back and her face scrubbed of makeup, looks impossibly young (because she is) and irrevocably broken (because she is). She speaks slowly, with great difficulty (because she’s fucking brain damaged), and she talks about how Nagy wooed her, how he made her feel special and different, how he asked her to come back to his loft to paint her, how she agreed, because she was so enamoured of him, and how he flew into an indescribable rage, how he screamed, how he hit her, kicked her, over and over and _over_ —

There’s a recess after that. Alex stumbles to the Ladies’ Room. She splashes cold water on her face, forces her breathing to calm down, wonders if she should eat _something_ , can’t think of a single thing that won’t make her queasier than she is, walks back to the room, sees Bobby hunched in the corner with Linda. She’s speaking to him intently, and by the way his shoulders are hunched and his forehead is creased, she knows he’s thinking, very hard, about what is coming up. He sees her, she knows he sees her, but he still won’t make fucking eye contact the fucking _ass_ , so she sits back down and waits for it to be over and done with.

Then the tape is shown, _her_ tape, and for the first time, Bobby seems to be paying attention. He sits up, leans forward, clenches his hands in front of him. He watches the tape and she watches him, realizing it’s the first time he’s seen it, probably. Or, maybe Linda has shown him, and he just hasn’t mentioned it to her, anything is possible at this point, but she can’t take her eyes off him, watching every muscle twitch, every grimace, every bead of sweat that forms and glistens along his hairline (but boy, his hair looks good, doesn’t it, folks?).

Then.

Then _Bobby_ speaks, the condemned man himself, and Alex is so stiff and tense her muscles actually hurt for days afterward, and within minutes sweat soaks through the armpits of her respectable suit jacket. He describes, calmly and lucidly, with careful coaching from Linda, how he was feeling when he saw Nagy attack his partner, how he reacted, how he believed Alex was in imminent danger (she was), how he believed she was dead (almost), and, most importantly, how he felt he acted as any police officer in his position would have, responsibly and ethically, nothing more, nothing less.

Several people on the panel ask him pointed questions, whether he meant to kill Nagy, what he remembers before he ran into the room, whether Nagy told him to stop, whether the officers told him to stop, _why_ he didn’t stop, etc., and Bobby, to his credit, keeps it together. He doesn’t lose his temper, he doesn’t even raise his voice, and for once, Alex doesn’t think it’s the medication talking. But, it isn’t hurting, either.

Near the end Alex realizes Nagy has two family members present: His mother and his sister, and neither one of them speaks. They did, however, cry, quietly but intensely when Alex spoke and when Amanda spoke, and Alex suspects they know. They know.

And they’re not crying for _him_.

The rest of it, psychological consultation results and physical fitness tests and numbers and textbook quotes are all very quiet and rather dull and completely undramatic, and then, suddenly, it’s over. Papers are being shuffled and returned to folders, people are standing and stretching, a few are even cracking jokes and laughing, and Alex blinks, confused and bewildered. Now what? She turns to ask Linda, but she’s talking to someone beside her, another lawyer, so Alex turns the other way, to catch Bobby’s eyes maybe, smile, but he’s standing too, with guards on each side of him, and they’re leading him away, back to Bellevue, out the door and they’re gone.

 

//

 

“A couple of days, at the most, I think,” Linda assures her in the hallway. To her credit she seems to understand that Alex is almost quivering with anxiety, and she squeezes her hand briefly. “They’ll review everything they saw and heard, and make a formal recommendation. I know it’s hard. Just…try to be patient.”

Hard.

_Shit._

Alex looks around and realizes _she can’t be here_. She manages to get away without speaking to anyone, and to _her_ credit, she makes it all the way home, into her own bathroom, before vomiting into her own toilet.

 

//

 

She calls him, at Bellevue, several times, she doesn’t know why, because he clearly wants nothing to do with her. And, of course, he can’t (won’t) come to the phone until the third night, the night she speaks to Linda, who tells her she has the recommendations and will meet with both of them in the morning.

She waits for 10 minutes before he _finally_ picks up. She can hear him breathing before he speaks.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she says, and her voice catches in her throat. She takes a gulp from the wine glass she’s cradling in her lap.

“Eames.” He sounds quiet. Dull. Resigned, even.

“Just…wanted to.” Shit. She doesn’t even know. “How are—”

“We’re meeting with Linda tomorrow, right?

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

She pauses. “You’ll be there, right?”

“Oh, I’ll be there with bells on.”

 

//

 

He’s there before she is, hunched in his seat. She sits beside him, glances at him, then at Linda, who is smiling, but Alex can’t tell what kind of smile it is, exactly.

“So?” Alex asks.

Linda spends 10 minutes reading to them from the review, her voice calm and measured. When she’s done, they all sit in silence.

“What does it mean?” Bobby asks.

“It means,” says Linda, smiling, “that you can leave. You can go home. Well, home with Alex, at least. Supervised out-patient status for six months.” She pauses, looks at Alex. “I mean, if that works for you, of course. If not, we’ll have to make other arrangements—”

“No, no. It’s…fine. Of course.”

“Like she has a choice,” Bobby mutters. He waits. “ _And_?”

Linda looks back down.

“And…suspension. Also six months, but, with pay, this time.”

Another pause.

“ _And_?”

“And…” Here Linda sighs. “A lifetime weapons ban. So…”

“No gun.”

“No gun.” She looks at him. “You can’t…be an active detective again, Bobby. But, I’m appealing, all right? I’m appealing right now, actually, and I’ve seen decisions like this overturned before, okay?

“Fucking desk job.”

Bobby laughs, but it sounds more like a smoker’s cough, an almost-vomit.

“Bobby.”

He scrubs a hand across his face.

“Overturned.”

“I have. I’ve seen it.”

“How many times?”

“Each case is different.” He’s about to speak again, so she interrupts, wisely. “In the meantime, you’re free to go. We just need to sign some paperwork, and Alex can take you home.” She leans forward, puts her hand on his, which is in a tight ball on her desk. “It’s good news, Bobby, really. Better than I hoped for.”

Bobby rubs his head, blows out a breath, looks at Linda.

“That’s because it’s not _your_ life.”

 

//

 

The drive home is about as comfortable as the last one they took together, but this time Alex has no desire to make conversation. She doesn’t want to talk about anything. She doesn’t even want to look at him.

She parks in front of her apartment, turns off the ignition, expects Bobby to leap from the car and go running, but he doesn’t. He sits, stares out the window, waits for something.

“You’re out, Bobby. Right? You’re out of Bellevue. Can we…at least be a bit happy about that? The rest of it, I know—”

“You don’t know. You don’t. Because it doesn’t affect _you_.”

“It…what?” She can’t quite believe what she’s hearing, so she plays it back in her head, just to make sure. “The possibility of your not coming back _doesn’t affect me_?”

He doesn’t reply to that.

“I can’t do this without your help, Bobby. I try. I keep trying. But, I can’t. And, you need to know that. You have to try, too. A little bit.”

“You…want me to try.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Try to do…what, exactly? Pretend I’m happy? Pretend I like the idea of being a prisoner in your apartment? Pretend that trading Bellevue’s security for you as a warden is a…step up somehow?” He shakes his head. “Hang on…just let me take a few more pills and I’ll get back to you about that.”

Fuck you, you thinks, but of course she doesn’t say it, because she doesn’t say things like that, and really, she just doesn’t care enough to say anything more to him.

 

//

 

This time being in her apartment doesn’t feel liberating; it feels claustrophobic, like a noose. The shakes and the sweating start the second the door closes behind them and his bag hits the floor at his feet.

He looks around rather desperately, wondering what he can do to make himself feel like death is not imminent.

“We…we need to discuss sleeping arrangements.”

He turns and looks at her.

“What do you mean?”

Alex crosses her arms, leans against the door frame. Her mouth thins out. “Well, you made it pretty clear last time you were here, that sharing a bed was, how did you put it? ‘A mistake.’ I think that was the word you used. Several times, in fact.”

He looks down. Shit. Shit shit. “W-well…I’ll take the couch, of course.”

She nods. “Of course. It _is_ a pull-out, in case you’re interested, but I know you’ll just flop down on the cushions, as is…right? Probably with your shoes on?”

He allows himself a smile, a small one. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Good. Thanks for being honest, at least.” And she goes to the linen closet, throws him a blanket and a pillow, and he kind of catches them, then stands there, at a loss.

“You have therapy every day at 10 a.m. We’ll have to leave here by 9:30, so meet me here, at the door, ready to go, okay? You know where the food is…I guess we’ll also have to discuss stuff like a menu and cooking, maybe…cleaning. I don’t know.”

“Eames—”

“I’m kind of tired, so I’m going to take a shower and take a nap.” She pauses, looks like she might say something comforting, something Alex-like, like _I’m here if you need me_ , or _Everything will be all right,_ but all she says is, “If you’re gonna watch TV, make sure it’s not too loud,” and closes the bathroom door behind her, and locks it.

 

//

 

And the first night on the couch is very long, very dark, and very quiet. He finally falls asleep, around 3 a.m., his hands clutching both the blanket and the pillow to his face, because they smell _like her_ —

and

and

_she kisses him again, harder than before, spreading her legs and _guiding his fingers beneath her underwear_ , against her slick skin, his fingers sliding in and ohgod, she’s wet, she’s actually wet and she’s not pulling away. If anything, she’s moving closer, giving him more access, kissing him harder and his fingers move and slide, back and forth, in and out and he can feel himself growing hard for the first time in a long while and he ducks his head, pulls her shirt up and finds her breasts, his tongue moving, and she gasps, her breaths hitching, her _hands_ all over him, making him even harder than he thought possible and then—_

“Bobby.” Something is poking his shoulder, hard. It’s Alex’s finger. Attached to her hand, and the rest of her body, that is fully clothed and waiting to drive him to therapy. She looks supremely unimpressed. “Come on. You have 15 minutes to get ready. I’m _not_ going to be held responsible for your being late the first day.”

He groans a bit and goes to get up and she moves away quickly, into the kitchen, and when he glances down at himself, he’s _intensely_ grateful.

 

//

 

(Monday)

Brian seems much happier about the current state of Bobby’s life than Bobby does, but his happiness isn’t infectious.

“So…how does it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

Brian grins and lifts his hands in explanation.

“Well, to not be _here_ anymore. To be free.”

Free. What a fucking joke. Bobby laughs, like he’s agreeing.

“But the funny thing is, I’m not free, Brian. I’m more trapped than before.”

 

//

 

(Tuesday)

“You’re staying with your…partner?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that going?”

“Great, Brian. It’s going great. We have wild, passionate sex every night, all night long. She can’t keep her hands off me.”

Brian writes something down, probably something along the lines of _Extremely reticent to participate; Sarcastic; Combative_ , then snaps his pen shut.

“Let’s keep moving forward, all right, Bobby? Let’s not…revert to old tactics, ones we _know_ don’t work.”

Bobby chews the inside of his cheek. What the hell.

“We barely talk. She’s…really mad most of the time.”

“What do you think she’s mad about?”

“Everything.”

“But, you don’t know.”

Bobby shakes his head.

“Have you tried asking her, or…talking to her, about how you’re feeling?”

“…what?”

 

//

 

(Wednesday)

He’s an impeccable roommate, of course: Neat and clean and quiet and spends an inordinate amount of time either sleeping or reading. He seems to be intent on working his way through her entire collection of books — he’s into the M’s now — and except for his coat on the rack and his shoes at the door and an extra toothbrush in her bathroom, she barely knows he’s there. Barely.

Nights are hard, of course, but they’re always hard. After they eat (Chinese or Thai take-out for now, together at the small table, but not speaking, really, other than _Please pass the Soy sauce_ , or _More water?_ ), she says a terse good night (she no longer has to warn him about the TV, since he doesn’t watch at all), and makes a beeline for her room. He knows she reads for awhile, or works on her laptop, or talks to her sister or father on the phone, then turns off the light at around 11 p.m.

And he knows she has bad dreams because he hears her, more than once, throughout the night, making sounds that make the hair stand up on his arms.

(Of course she has bad dreams. Fuck. He saw the tape, he saw it happen firsthand, saw (kissed) the bruises. Of course. Post-traumatic stress and all that. Of course.)

She yells out, sometimes nonsensical words, sometimes _stop_ , but tonight she yells _Bobby_ , and he leaps to his feet without even thinking, runs to her door, pushes it open with his hand—

—and he stands in her doorway, the longing to go to her, to comfort her, so overwhelming he digs his fingers into the doorframe to keep himself from moving.

She settles at last and he releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He turns to leave.

“Bobby?” This time she _is_ awake, he knows, but the desire to go to her is just as powerful.

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing?”

“I…I heard you. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You…heard me.”

“Yeah. You were yelling.”

“What…did I yell?”

“N-nothing. Just…it’s okay.”

He hears the sheets rustling. “Bad dream I guess.”

“Yeah.” He pauses. “Is there…anything I can do?”

A long pause before she says:

“No.”

“Okay.” How can he fix this? How can he possibly fix this? “Good night, then.”

He turns and walks back to the couch, lies down, pulls the blanket over his head, counts the hours until therapy.

 

//

 

(Thursday)

Tonight it’s Chicken Chow Mein and egg rolls and more strained silence. Bobby slides his food around his plate and notices she’s doing the same. Maybe it’s time for one of them to start cooking something. He takes a breath.

“How…was your morning?” he asks.

“What?”

“I mean…while you were waiting for me. What do you do?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. Walk. Read. Listen to music.” She swallows some food with difficulty. “Why?”

“I’m supposed to practice…talking…more.”

“You talk just fine.”

He sighs. “I’m supposed to practice _communicating_ …more.”

“Ah.” She wipes her mouth and stands. “Well. Good luck with _that_.”

“This is only temporary,” he reminds her, sounding angrier than he feels. “I’ll be out of here as soon as my probation is over.”

“Right. Of course you will.” She walks to the kitchen, dumps her plate and utensils in the sink. He can hear her mumble something under her breath, but doesn’t catch it, is pretty sure he doesn’t really want to know, because when someone mumbles something within hearing range, it’s usually not good. Then she’s at the front door, shoving her feet into her shoes and grabbing a coat from the rack.

Uh oh.

“Where are you going?” He stands, moves to her.

“Out,” she says. Then, “Here.” She’s handing him something, something silver, dangling from a string. Oh. A key. “For the apartment.”

He stares at it, then at her, not understanding. She rolls her eyes.

“What? You can come and go as you please. I’m not interested in playing _warden_ , Bobby. I’m pretty sure you’re not going to…sneak in a case of beer, or dismantle my Lady Schick and slit your wrists, or hitch a ride to Canada, okay? My only _duty_ here is to make sure you get to your appointments on time.” She jams her arms into her jacket with more force than is necessary. “Oh, and maybe, you know, keep you from flushing your meds down my toilet again, because we all remember how disastrously _that_ turned out, right?” She jerks the zipper up so violently she almost catches the bottom of her chin. “So, just…pick up after yourself and wash your own dishes and I don’t think we’ll have any more problems.”

Even after the apartment door slams shut behind her, Bobby is sure he can hear her feet stomping all the way down the hall.

 

//

 

The apartment is eerily silent after she leaves. For such a small person, she takes up a lot of space and now it feels empty and lonely.

An hour passes, and another, and he fights a rising tide of panic. Okay. She was pissed, okay, but maybe she went to a friend’s (she has no friends, does she? At least none she ever speaks of), or went for a (very) long walk, or—

Fuck.

It’s dark and getting darker and he wonders if he should go looking for her, except she gave him absolutely no clue where she went. Out. Out where? He calls her cell. No answer. He leaves a brief message (Hey it’s me just wanted to say hey…it’s me). Then paces some more. He picks up his book (Ann-Marie MacDonald) and tries to read, but knows it’s hopeless. He calls her cell again. And again.

Is she coming back? Is she _that_ mad at him that she’d just…take off for the night? No. No, she’s supposed to…look after him. She’s been put in charge, and no, she’s not his _warden_ , as she so succinctly pointed out, but still. Eames would never…shirk her responsibility.

So. Where _is_ she?

His cell rings at nearly 9 p.m. and he pounces. Her name flashes on the screen and he instructs himself, severely, before he answers:

 _Don’t let her know you’re mad, don’t let her know, just sound calm and rational and sane and_ concerned—

“Where the hell are you?”

“Wow. That’s _very_ nice. Look. Against my better judgment, I’m calling you.” Oh. But, it’s not Eames, after all.

“What?”

“Believe me, if I had _any_ other option—”

Bobby knows the voice, he _knows it_ —

“ _Liz?_ ”

She sighs. “Yes. Look…Alex is in the hospital… _again_.” Bobby doesn’t miss the emphasis. The phone slides in his suddenly sweaty palm.

“Wh-what’s happened? Is she all right?”

“She didn’t want me to call you, and believe me, I didn’t want to call you, but I also don’t want you to…I don’t know…have a nervous breakdown or call the FBI or something because you don’t know where she is.”

Bobby closes his eyes, a thousand images skittering through his brain, none of them good.

“Just…tell me where she is.”

There’s a pause.

“Promise you won’t show up here, guns blazing?”

“I don’t have a gun.”

“Bobby.”

“I’m not promising anything.”

Another pause.

“Liz. _Please_.”

A sigh. Some static. She tells him.

 

//

 

Alex’s sister looks like a taller, puffier version of Eames, with Soccer Mom hair and sensible shoes. She wears the harried, weary look of a mom with young, overactive kids and an overworked husband who may or may not be cheating on her. She’s seated by the bed, tapping on her phone, a crease between her eyebrows. When she looks up and sees Bobby, the crease deepens.

Alex is propped up in the bed, looking impossibly small and pale, hooked up to several monitors. She’s awake, however, and looking decidedly pissed (mortified?) about the situation, which is a positive sign, he decides.

He moves to her side, but doesn’t touch her.

“What happened?” he asks, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Alex opens her mouth, but Liz beats her to it.

“She fainted in the grocery store, is what happened.”

“I did _not_ ,” Alex says, closing her eyes and throwing her head back in frustration. “I’ve never fainted in my life, not even when I was pushing out _your_ large-headed son.” She shifts on the bed, grimaces and holds her side. “I _fell down_.

“You collapsed.”

“I didn’t.”

“You _did_.”

“Wait a minute…you…fell down?” Bobby moves even closer, presses his legs up against the side of her bed, which is a good thing, because they suddenly feel very weak.

(He might throw Eames over his shoulder and run and run and—)

Alex’s cheeks redden and she avoids his penetrating gaze.

“Some genius thought calling an _ambulance_ was a good idea. I’m holding the produce guy responsible.”

“It _was_ a good idea. You _should_ be in the hospital.” Liz looks at Bobby and adds, unnecessarily: “You’re worn out.”

“I’m _not_.”

“You _are_.”

Oh fuck, thinks Bobby. What have I walked into? Alex looks up at him, her expression a mixture of defiance and contrition. And something else indefinable.

An impossibly young doctor hurries in, clipboard in hand, a cursory nod to everyone. He listens to Alex’s breathing, her heart. “Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” he asks, and Liz starts laughing. Alex glares at her.

“I’d like to have a closer look at your ribs,” he says then, and Liz jumps up.

“We’ll give you some privacy,” she says, squeezing her sister’s hand. “Besides…I need to talk to Bobby.”

“Oh god,” Alex mutters, and looks at Bobby, alarmed. Bobby tries to give her a reassuring smile, but his mouth feels rather frozen and his heart’s in his throat, and honestly? He’s kind of scared of Liz.

_Now I’m in trouble._

He follows her out into the hallway, down to the waiting room where they both buy cups of hot, greasy coffee from the vending machine. They sit, side by side on slippery orange, plastic chairs, and listen to other family members grieve around them.

Eventually, Liz puts him out of his misery. “So. You’re living with Alex.” It’s not a question.

“Y-yes.” For some reason he feels the need to clarify. “Well, I’m _staying_ with her. But, I have to. I mean, it’s part of my p-probation—”

She holds up a hand. He stops talking. She stares at him. He thinks there are probably a million things she _wants_ to say to him, general things about his numerous unsavoury character traits, or his lack of work ethic, but, all she comes up with is: “Just…don’t mess with…the books. It took me forever to do that.”

Feeling he’s dodged a gigantic bullet, he almost smiles in relief, but realizes that would not be a good idea. “No, n-ever. Seriously. It’s…brilliant.”

She smiles, despite herself.

“Yeah. She mentioned you were…appreciative.”

“I am. Very much.”

The sit in not uncomfortable silence for a bit, pretending to sip horrible coffee.

“Listen…be nice to her, all right? Even if you don’t want to _be_ with her, be _nice_ to her. She…she deserves it.”

Oh, god. What to say to _that_ that wouldn’t make him sound like more of an asshole than she already thinks he is?

“Liz, I don’t know what Alex has told you…about me…about _us_ —”

“She tells me nothing, really, about anything, but that’s Alex, always has been. She’s…guarded, private. And I’m no detective, but I know her well enough to know how she feels about you. And…I don’t approve, okay? I don’t. And…I just don’t want her to get hurt anymore. She’s been through enough, you know?”

Bobby is trying to decipher what has just been said when Liz gulps the rest of her coffee and squishes the cup between her fingers.

“Look…I have to get home. I gather you’re going to stay for awhile?”

He nods.

“Okay.” She stands, starts ripping the Styrofoam to bits. “She…needs you more than she’d ever tell you. Just so you know. And if I ever find out you told her I told you?”

He blinks.

“I know where you live.”

 

//

 

He manages to corner the young doctor as he’s leaving Alex’s room.

“What’s…wrong with her?”

“You mean, aside from the recent concussion and-as-yet unhealed ribs? Low blood pressure, borderline anemia, dehydration, exhaustion. We’ve been in touch with her family doctor, and Ms. Eames has not been back for one follow-up visit since her accident. Not one. Any idea why?”

Yes.

“She’s…better at looking after other people.”

“Well, that mentality has landed her back in here.”

Bobby closes his eyes.

“Maybe you can convince her to start looking after herself, too?” The doctor scribbles something down, fixes Bobby with a stern look. “Or, maybe you can look after her?”

What did Alex tell him, exactly?

“Y-yes…I can do that.”

“Good.” He pauses. “You can start by letting her sleep.”

 

//

 

But Bobby, of course, has other ideas, because the thought of leaving her alone in the hospital _again_ fills him with a kind of sick dread, as does the thought of spending a night alone in her apartment. So, when he sees the nurse assigned to Alex’s room pause outside her door, he pounces.

“Listen…I’d really like…is it possible for me to stay here…with her, at least for awhile? I…I owe her.”

The nurse looks at him. Bobby twists his hands in front of him, shuffles his feet a bit. He needs to sit down. He needs to sleep. He needs a _drink._

She smiles, gently. She has a nice smile, he’s relieved to see.

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible—”

“Look…I’m a cop,” he lies, then amends, “and _she’s_ a cop…and I just…I’d _really_ appreciate it if.” He takes a breath. “I owe her.”

And maybe she finds him hopelessly cute, or just hopeless, but she relents, even touches his arm briefly when she smiles.

“Just…make sure you stay in her room and for god’s sakes, be quiet. No running up and down the halls at 3 a.m. demanding more painkillers for her.”

“No. No. I swear.”

But, he’s lying _again_ , because he knows he’d do just that, and more, if she needed him to.

 

//

 

He pulls a chair up close to her bed. The lights have been turned off and she’s drowsing. It never gets completely dark in a hospital room, though, so he’s able to watch her by the light from the hallway and the weird neon glow of the monitors. She stirs after a bit and opens her eyes, seems surprised to see him sitting there.

“Where’s Liz?”

“She went home.”

“Good.”

He smiles. He agrees.

“Are you really here?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

She stares at him, hard.

“All that time before…the first time…I kept waking up and you weren’t there, and you weren’t there…I know you thought I was dead, but I thought you were dead, too.

“Yeah. I know. I would…I would have been here if I could have.”

“Well, you were…kind of.”

“What do you mean?”

She shakes her head. So hard to explain.

“Aren’t visiting hours over?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. I got special permission…just for tonight, so you know, you better be released tomorrow.”

“Special permission.”

“Yeah.”

“For me.”

“Yeah.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“I really am tired, you know. And I might have actually fainted today. It’s possible. I just didn’t want Liz to know she was right, as usual. She can be such a pain in the ass.”

“I’m…sorry. I haven’t been paying enough attention—”

“No, you haven’t. You’ve actually been kind of a dick.” He wonders what kind of painkillers they’ve given her, because she seems to be saying whatever the hell pops into her head. “I’ve been running my ass off for you for weeks, and do you know you haven’t thanked me once, you haven’t even asked me how I’m doing, how I’m _feeling_?”

He blinks. Fuck. She’s right.

“I’m sorry—”

She waves a hand at him. “Shit. Forget I said that, okay? I’m drugged up and that sounded so pathetic.”

“It doesn’t. It sounds honest.”

She groans and covers her eyes. “God. You and your therapy. We’ve created a monster.”

“Eames, listen—”

She presses her fingers against her eyes so hard, he’s afraid she’s going to hurt herself.

“No, you listen. Let me just ask you one thing, and please be honest: What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you doing _here_? Right now?”

He looks around. Isn’t it obvious?

“Keeping you company.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? It’s not a trick question, Bobby. I mean, you’ve made it pretty clear you want nothing to do with me—”

“That’s not true—”

“—you’ve barely spoken to me, or _looked_ at me, in weeks—”

“I’ve been a little preoccupied—”

“You avoid me, go out of your way to not touch me, you pretty much act like you hate me—”

“Hate you? I don’t _hate_ you, are you _joking_ —?”

“I mean, we’re not partners anymore, we’re barely friends, and god forbid we get _involved_ on any personal level, so my question is why? Why are you torturing me, and yourself, by hanging around my hospital room—” she glances at the clock, “—at midnight in the middle of the week?”

And because she’s almost yelling, he almost yells a bit, too:

“Because I love you, that’s why, all right?”

Her expression is almost comical, but Bobby doesn’t feel like laughing in the least. She swallows, blinks rapidly. Oh god, now he’s gone and done it.

“Eames—”

“Wow. Brian’s been doing some damn fine work with you, is all I can say,” she says swiping at her eyes. “Better communication my _ass_.”

Bobby leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Shouldn’t I have said it?”

She looks right at him, daring, defiant.

“Did you mean it?”

He looks up, looks right at her, vulnerable, intent.

“Yes.”

She nods. “Okay, then, you should have said it.”

“Okay.”

“ _Okay._ ”

Now that they have _that_ settled, Bobby sits back, crosses his legs, uncrosses them, and decides to stare at the wall for awhile, hoping the painkillers will really kick in and she’ll just drift off without uttering another word about _anything at all_ , especially the love part.

After he counts to 100 a few times, once in Spanish, once in French, he dares to glance at her. She’s lying on her back, with her head angled towards him, her hair in a dark golden tangle across the pillow. Her eyes are closed, her chest gently rising and falling. It takes his breath away, and he wants to imprint the image on the backs of his eyelids, how she looks, right at this moment.

_Oh, Alex._

He sits still, watching her, wondering if he should get up and leave, and just when he’s sure she’s deeply asleep, she speaks. Her eyes are still closed.

“Wish you could lie down with me.”

Oh god, he does too, so much it hurts.

“Bed’s too small,” he says.

“I’m small, too,” she reminds him. He smiles.

“Yeah. You are. But, I’m not.”

She sighs. “S’okay. Just wish you could.”

Shit. He looks over his shoulder, expecting the nurse to come striding in at any minute wielding a hypodermic or a straightjacket with his name on it. It’s just. He just wants to hold her, desperately, before she slips away again, before he says or does something so fucking stupid or thoughtless he loses her for good, because really, _it’s possible_. He looks over his shoulder one last time and fuck it. He stands up, pulls the sheets back and she opens her eyes a bit and grins up at him. He manages, through some careful maneuvering of body parts and shifting of wires, to slide in beside her, and with him on his side, with one arm angled above his head and the other over her waist, and one leg half off the edge of the bed, he does it. She shifts, too, moves onto her side, wraps an arm over his chest, and presses her face into his shirt front.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Now I’ll be able to sleep.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” he says, his fingers rubbing the small of her back, and she laughs a little.

She’s starting to drift off, he can tell, her body relaxing and leaning into his, her fingers loosening their grip on the back of his shirt, and he’s not thinking about much at all except how good it feels, to just lie like this with her, even if it’s in a hospital room, and it’s really uncomfortable and he knows he won’t sleep at all, when she startles, the way you do just as you’re dropping over the edge of consciousness into sleep, and it startles him too, and he’s just about to soothe her, when she moves her head back a bit so she can look at him.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, too.”

And it actually makes his chest hurt, to hear that (when was the last time someone said it, besides his mom? And when was the last time his mom actually said it?), and he can’t speak, so he just nods, and hopes she understands everything the nod implies, including _thank you_ , and _you’re welcome_ , and _I love you, too, more than anything_.

So they lie there, and he listens to Eames _finally_ drift off, her breath fanning against the sensitive skin of his throat, and he realizes it has started to rain; he can just hear it over the steady beep of the monitors. He listens to the rain slapslapslap against her hospital window, and for the first time in ages, the sound doesn’t make him uneasy; instead, it has just the opposite effect. He sighs and relaxes, bit by bit, lets his cheek rest against the top of her head, wraps his arm around her even tighter, and allows himself to think maybe, just _maybe_ , the rest of his life isn’t going to be completely fucking miserable.

 

//

 

_tbc_


	8. Our dream of safety has to disappear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May be your own. _Post-Purgatory_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **These characters do not belong to me**.

//

 

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep  
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;  
Although I love you, you will have to leap;  
Our dream of safety has to disappear.  
 _~WH Auden, Leap Before You Look_

 

//

 

She falls asleep on the way home.

It’s not a long drive from the hospital to her apartment, but Bobby catches her nodding off before he’s even pulled out of the parking lot, her head

He thinks about how good it feels to do something for _her_ for a change.

It’s a pattern, or a habit, their relationship, and they fall right back into it as if

They fall back into the routine so easily and it’s almost as if nothing has changed, almost. They are kinder to one another, of course, gentler. They laugh more, they talk, not exactly intimately, but not the halting, stilted angry talk of before. Alex drives him to therapy every morning, and by the time they return to her apartment, it’s after lunch. They eat, sometimes Alex naps now They watch TV in the evenings, some nights

They do not share a bed. They do not kiss, they don’t even hug. Before she goes into her bed at night, she sometimes squeezes his arm in passing, and once she even tousles his hair. They make eye contact.

 

Bobby thinks a lot about that night in the hospital

He thinks about what he said, and what she said in return, and why it hasn’t really changed anything between them. He thinks

He thinks maybe she hadn’t meant it.

And, he thinks maybe she doesn’t even remember saying it.

 

//

 

And of course there are still the dreams. Those _haven’t_ changed, and some nights it’s her, and some nights it’s him.

 

She sits up, tangled in sheets, confused and concerned. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“No.”

He sits heavily on the edge of her bed. “Had a dream.”

She nods. He can feel it. “Bad one?”

“Yeah. Real bad.”

“Yeah.”

Then end up talking about what happened, which they’ve never done.

“You…he was…” God he does not want to hyperventilate.

“Bobby. It’s ok. I’m ok.”

“I know. I know you are _now_ …but you…you weren’t, all right? You don’t get it. No one fucking _gets_ it.”

 

//

 

He looks at the calendar.

“It’s the 12th.”

“What? Oh yeah. Guess it is.”

“You’re supposed to go back to work next week.”

She looks up.

“Oh. That. That’s been…postponed.”

“What do you mean? For how long?”

“Uh…six months or so. I took…a leave of absence.”

“What? Why?”

“Lots of reasons.”

 

//

 

“That ? special is on tonight.”

“Oh.” Alex looks embarrassed. “I’m…going out tonight. Liz is insisting.”

“Ah. Okay. Well. I could tape it for you.”

“Okay.”

She’s put her hair up, which always catches him by surprise, because he can see her neck. She’s wearing a shirt, no, a blouse, blue, and a skirt, so he can also see her _legs_ , and low heels.

“You…uh. You look nice.”

“Thank you.” She looks down at herself. “I don’t know. I don’t do this enough, I guess.”

“What, get dressed up?”

“Go out.”

And then she’s gone.

“How was it?”

“Fine. It was…fine.” She kicks off her shoes and drops her coat on the floor. She flops on the couch next to him. She’s been drinking, he can tell immediately, and much more than usual.

“Liz must have really wanted you to loosen up.”

“Well, it wasn’t entirely Liz’s idea.”

“Ah. Rediscovering your passion for margaritas?”

“Those…and something called…Dave ordered them.”

“Dave.”

“Liz’s husband.”

“Oh. I thought it was just going to be the two of you.”

“Me, too. Turns out there were four of us.”

Bobby puts his book down. He doesn’t like the sound of this.

“Four?”

She holds up her hand, counts on four fingers.

“A work friend of Dave’s. It was all very innocent at first, oh ? had a date and it didn’t work out, do you mind if he comes, blah blah blah. And I’m so fucking naïve it didn’t even hit me at first, but then.” She stops suddenly, kind of shrugs.

“Then.” Even though he knows what’s coming, he doesn’t want to hear, but he wants to hear, because he knows—

“He kissed me.”

 _Shit_.

Bobby drops the book. It lands on the floor with a muffled thud. “H-he… _what_?”

“You heard me.”

ShitShit. He was hoping he hadn’t.

“W-where?”

“By my car.”

“No…no. I meant—

“I know what you meant,” she says, smiling a little.

“On the cheek?” he says, praying for some small miracle.

She leans back on the couch, _looser_ than he’s ever seen her, though he hasn’t seen her mildly drunk ever, unless you count the third Christmas party, but he doesn’t, because

Her hair is coming loose from the thing she’s put it in, the bun or whatever, at the back of her head, and her blouse has fallen open in a way that he can actually see the edge of her bra. He thinks of Michael, with his mouth on hers, and his hands on her back, pulling her close enough to him to feel her breasts against his chest—

“Did you…kiss him back?”

“Well, I didn’t _hit_ him, or anything, if that’s what you mean.” She shifts, pulls her feet up beneath her, lolls her head to look at him. “I mean, it isn’t his fault my sister is such a twit. A well-meaning twit, but a twit all the same.”

He just stares at her, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, because frankly, he fucking can’t.

_You said you loved me_

_“We had…a good time. It’s been so long since I’ve had fun, and we were all laughing, and drinking, and after I got over being furious at Liz, it was…all right. And he was funny and I guess there was a connection there—_

__Shutupshutupshutup_ _

_“— and when I said I had to leave, he walked me to my car and I _thought_ he was just going to kiss my cheek, but…”_

_But._

_“But…you must have…you must have been giving him signals. He must have thought you _wanted_ him to—”_

_(And you told me you loved me_

_“What? You think I pulled up my shirt and flashed my breasts? What are you saying exactly? I don’t know what I did. I’m not aware of any come-hither looks in my dating arsenal.”_

__You don’t need any._ _

_Bobby feels a white-hot churning in his gut. He has absolutely no idea what to do or say, which hardly ever happens, so when it does, it makes him incredibly uncomfortable. He can feels Alex’s eyes on him, dark and steady, but he can’t look at her. His face feels very hot, his hands cold. He goes to stand up and do _what_ , exactly, he’s not sure, but Eames stops him anyway, not with a touch, but with a look._

_“You wanna know what I was doing? Honestly? I was thinking of _you_ , and wondering how you were doing, and if you’d eaten, and taken your meds, and if, maybe, you were thinking about me for a change, and I probably had a stupid moony expression on my face and poor ? mistook that for misplaced desire for _him_ and—_

_He kisses her. Just like that, in the middle of her sentence. And it’s not a wimpy, little kiss either: He kisses her like _he fucking means it_ , because he does._

_“It’s not that,” she says, her fingers touching her lips. “I would…I would just like it if you kissed me because you want to, not to…make your mark, or…erase Michael’s saliva from my mouth._

_“Eames. I…wanted to, believe me. I…still want to.”_

_“I just thought…things would be different between us, after…”_

_“After what?’_

_“After…you said you loved me.”_

_“Different how?”_

_She shrugs. “I don’t know.” She keeps touching her lips. Bobby keeps watching._

_“You said it too.”_

_“Well, you said it first.”_

_“But, you _yelled_ it at me.”_

_“Yeah? Well _you_ were high as a kite when you said it. I thought you didn’t even—”_

_“Remember?” She laughs. Why is she laughing?_

_“Yeah.” He sounds defensive. He knows this._

_Then she turns dark, bright eyes on him and he forgets everything he was going to say._

_“I do remember. I remember _everything_. I remember_

_“You’re afraid I’ll regret it.”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I won’t.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“Because I know you.”_

_//_

_Sex scene from her point of view_

_His hands are everywhere, but they’re moving slowly, languidly almost, as if he doesn’t want to rush it, or miss anything._

_“I didn’t.”_

_“Didn’t what?”_

_“Kiss him back. Michael. I stood there in complete shock for a couple seconds, because I hadn’t seen it coming. And then I pulled away and…”_

_“And what?”_

_“He knew.”_

_“He knew what?”_

_“That I was already taken.”_

_//_

_He’s been scared a long time._

_Suddenly he’s not scared anymore._

_//_

_“I think…I’m pretty sure I need you too much.”_

_“What does that even _mean_? Too much? Too much…for what?”_

_He shakes his head. “I just…I can’t _do_ this, any of it…without you.”_

_Now he’s afraid to look at her. What is she thinking? Is she horrified? Scared? Angry? Amused? He lifts his eyes. She’s crying, or about to, anyway. He really needs to work on not making her cry all the time._

_“You don’t need me any more than I need you.”_

_But he’s already shaking his head before she’s even done talking._

_“What? This isn’t some damn contest, Bobby.”_

_This sit in silence._

_“Bobby…I need you, too.”_

_“You…need me.”_

_“Yes. How can you not know that?”_

_“Looking after someone and needing them are two different things.”_

_“I know that.”_

_Night time_

_“Linda left a message. Said for us to meet her in the morning.”_

_Bobby nods._

_“She must have…news. About the appeal.”_

_“Yeah. Probably.”_

_“Eames…would it…make a difference? Between us, I mean. If…I can’t go back.”_

_“Only that I won’t go back without you.”_

_Either quitting their jobs and leaving together, or him coming back and them moving on to the next case.  
Leaving together, don’t know where_

_“What about jobs?”_

_“Well, I think you have a real shot as a dancer.”_

_“You…_

_“Because you saved my life.”_

_“Yeah,” he smiles, shyly. Then he stops smiling, looks away, looks back at her, really at her, so she can understand the weight, the importance of what he’s about to say, because if he says nothing else but _this_ to her for the rest of their lives, it will be enough. “But, you saved mine, too.”_

_//_

__fin_ _

_Title shamelessly ~~stolen~~ borrowed from Flannery O’Connor’s short story of the same name._


End file.
